


Objects In The Mirror

by KaraRenee



Series: Red Letter Day [5]
Category: Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Parentlock, casefic, parentstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 16:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 30,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12536548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee
Summary: The continuing romance of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade in this Alternate Timeline takes us into domestic territory as Mycroft meets Greg's teenage children. Greg is introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes as their eldest son's partner. A missing persons case ties Sherlock, Mycroft's daughter Mychelle, Greg's daughter Jenny, Sherlock, Lestrade and Mycroft together in an international crime ring.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this part of Red Letter Day comes from the a-ha song "Objects in the Mirror" from their Cast In Steel album. 
> 
> Oodles of thanks to my beta team Crickette and bigblueboxat221b!!

Tuesday

Mychelle tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear. The blustery mid-May weather caused havoc with her carefully up-swept hair-do. Normally she did not wear a suit or fuss with her mane of unruly hair, but it also was not every day she met her father for lunch in Mayfair. On a Tuesday she would be knee deep in paperwork, typing up case work on the homeless teens she was working with. She focused her eyes on the salad in front of her and pressed her lips together to suppress a smile. 

Mycroft sighed. He placed his fork on the table, then dabbed the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin. 

“Honestly, you have your mother’s inability to conceal your emotions.”

She looked up, eyes moist, fighting the grin that wanted to spread across her face.

The waiter quietly refilled Mychelle’s water goblet. The other diners carried on conversations in hushed tones. The clink of flatware on white plates, the soft violin music, the spotless table linens all shouted to Mychelle that they were worlds away here on Mayfair from the social work she did on the streets of London, and the London Borough Council.

It was also not the place to gush over her father’s romance.

“I’m still jealous that I didn’t pull a handsome detective at Uncle Sherlock’s wedding,” she muttered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, Father, just stop it. You’re glowing. Love suits you.”

Mycroft blushed. That was exactly what Greg had said to him that morning. 

“You look happy this morning, Mr. Holmes,” Greg said as he fussed with the knot of Mycroft’s tie. 

“I believe, Detective Inspector, that is directly related to waking up beside you.” Mycroft pressed his forehead gently to Greg’s. 

Greg rubbed his nose against Mycroft’s. “Love suits you, Mr. Holmes. Go keep the Empire safe. I’ll see what I can do on the city streets.”

Mychelle stabbed the tomato in her salad, allowed the bleu cheese dressing to drip a little onto the lettuce before lifting it to her mouth. 

“Greg’s children will be coming to stay during the half term.”

She paused the fork at her mouth, dressing settled in a white droplet on her pink painted lips. Mycroft raised one eyebrow at her. She quickly bit the tomato off her fork and flicked her tongue over the spot on her lip.

“His son is fourteen? And his daughter is sixteen?” Mychelle tried to remember previous discussions.

“Yes.” Mycroft looked uncomfortable.

“And their mother has been accepting of your relationship?” Mycroft nodded. “Are the children?”

“Jennifer thinks it’s ‘fabulous’ and has apparently been bragging about her father’s relationship at school. She is the only one of her friends with a gay father. Apparently many of her friends have lesbian mothers. Anthony on the other hand…” Mycroft’s voice trailed off. 

“Ah. Uncomfortable with it, is he? His dad’s a detective in the big city, but turns out he’s a poof?” Her refined tone slipped into a common London dialect. She winked.

Mycroft’s eyes went wide. “How did you end up so crass, Mychelle?”

“I work with homeless women and children. I spend most of my time wearing kegs, walking shady parts of the city, and trying to convince depressed, beaten, undereducated women and teens to get services. So,” she sat back. “What is young Anthony’s issue?”

“He has begun to rebel. His mother doesn’t know what to do about it. Her partner told her that kids go through phases, and he doesn’t think it is an issue. He’s a P.E. teacher. I suppose one must trust those who work with children. But she is sending the children to us in the hopes that Greg will ‘sort him out’ over the holiday.”

Mychelle tipped her head to the side. The lock of hair that had come out of her up-do fell out from behind her ear. Her hazel eyes looked at her father over the frames of her glasses. “What sort of rebellion are we talking about here? Underage drinking? Smoking? Drugs?”

“Goth.”

She straightened up. “Goth?”

“Yes. Anthony has started to paint his nails black and wear all black clothing.” Mycroft rubbed his thumb nervously over his clean, manicured nail beds.

“But, does he have issues with your relationship with his father?”

“Nothing has been stated explicitly.”

“Is he cutting? Is he depressed?” She leaned forward, social work training mode engaged.

“Unknown.”

“Does he have friends? Does he engage in sport?”

“Yes. He plays football and he is reportedly very popular with friends of all genders.”

Mychelle crinkled her eyes. “So, you may not know I am in possession of this knowledge…”

Mycroft cut her off. “Your mother told you?”

“She showed me photos.” Her smile was impish. Exactly like her mother.

Mycroft pressed his lips together and crinkled his nose as if an unpleasant smell wafted past. “Of course she did.”

Mychelle checked the time on her phone. “Then you have an upper hand on your D.I. and his ex-wife.”

“That was a very long time ago, Mychelle.”

“I’m fairly certain that your memory is good.”

***

Mycroft stopped on his front step. Loud music was playing inside the house. Greg is home. He dropped his keys in the carved cherrywood bowl and placed his umbrella in the stand. Hanging his damp trench coat on the hall tree, he cringed. Wham! was playing at full volume. He followed the sound of 80’s dance music to their bedroom. 

The scent of Greg’s favourite, cheap body wash floated on the steam from the shower. Mycroft would have disposed of the vile, fake ocean scented gel, but when mixed with Greg’s natural scent, it drove Mycroft to distracting thoughts of passion. 

The door between their bedroom and the en suite was open. Greg was in the bathroom somewhere behind the haze, only his voice giving away his location. He sang along loudly to the phone plugged into the stereo.

“So good, you're divine. Want to take you, want to make you, but they tell me it's a crime! Good thing I’m a cop,” he chuckled to himself. 

Mycroft laughed quietly. He slipped out of his suit jacket and started on the buttons of his waistcoat. 

“...where the good people go, but where we're going baby ain't no such word as no! Baby, I'm your man (don't you know who I am?) Baby, I'm your man!”  
Greg emerged from the en suite. A plush white towel was wrapped low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to the hairs that ran from his chest to below the line of the towel. He dried his hair with a second towel, head bowed, so he did not see Mycroft standing in the room.  
Greg continued to sing and he ruffled the towel over his head. “If you're gonna do it, do it right, right? Do it with me. If you're gonna do it, do it right, right? Do it with me. If you're gonna do it, do it right, right? Do it with me. If you're gonna do it, do it right.”  
Mycroft and Greg had been dancing several times in the past five months, but Mycroft had never seen him move like this. Greg shifted his hips, thrust, shimmied his shoulders. He turned so Mycroft got the full view of his back. Damp clung to the valley of his spine and settled as glistening droplets in the soft patch of greying hairs at his sacrum. Mycroft pulled off his tie. He tilted his head as he watched the shimmying hips before him. He smirked to himself, realizing he was mesmerized by the ridiculous dance moves of his partner.  
Greg tossed the towel he had been drying his hair with into the en suite. He unwrapped the towel from his hips and pulled it back and forth across his backside as he sang.  
“So why waste time with the other guys? When you can have mine. I ain't askin' for no sacrifice, baby your friends do-not-need-to-know! I've got a real nice place to go -Mycroft!”  
He dropped the towel when he spun around. He stood before Mycroft completely starkers, Wham! still playing at full volume.  
“Please, do not stop on my account.” His eyes traveled the length of Greg’s naked figure. “I am not the type to visit a gentlemen’s club, but watching you dance with such abandon in our bedroom must be superior to paying for a similar privilege.” Mycroft dropped his cuff links into the glass dish on his bedside table and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. “I am sure the pleasures I am imaging would cost someone a few hundred pounds and perhaps a night in a cell.”  
Greg blushed. “You enjoyed that, did you?”  
“Indeed, Greg. As I am enjoying the view currently.” A smile curled the left side of his mouth.  
“You’re a right dirty bastard, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?” His blush turned to a seductive glow. He put his fists on his naked hips. Limp penis began to stiffen under the grey-eyed scrutiny of his lover.  
“I had a trying day at work and had planned on coming home to a drink and quiet evening with a book. I was a bit put off by the pop music when I entered. After this display, I believe I’d much rather put my hands all over your scented skin to make sure you washed all of your anatomy appropriately.”  
“Of course,” Greg bit the corner of his bottom lip flirtatiously, blush of excitement spread over his warm skin. “I was busy singing and dancing. I may have missed a few places. I should be inspected.”  
Mycroft kicked off his shoes, toed off his socks, and tossed his shirt towards the bag for the dry cleaner. “If you wouldn’t mind taking care of that… music,” he pulled a face that indicated he wasn’t sure that was the word he needed for the sound coming from the phone. The song had changed to ‘Faith’. “And then, perhaps, if you would be so kind as to lay on your belly. I noticed your knee was giving you some trouble while you were dancing. I would hate for it to give out while your body is shaking from pleasure while I fuck you with my tongue.”  
“How the hell do you say things like that with a straight face?”  
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Poker face may be a better description. I am fairly positive at this point you are sure nothing about me is straight.”  
Mycroft shucked off his trousers, erection strained against the soft fabric of his pants.  
Greg smiled, eyes on his lover’s groin. “Well, I can think of one thing about you that’s pretty straight.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mychelle opens a missing persons case. Jenny and Tony are excited to visit their dad for school break. And Greg comes out at work.

**Friday**

Mychelle sat at her desk in her dingy office. The low battery light on her laptop blinked.  She had forgotten her power cord at home this morning. Friday mornings were always rushed. Thursday nights were spent driving around the city making sure some of the kids she did casework for were not back on the streets doing drugs or selling their bodies. She could shut down once her four o’clock showed up.  She always took notes longhand and typed them up later.  Her yellow pad and pen were ready.  The clock at the bottom of her screen read 16:35.

“Evan?” She directed her voice out her open office door.

“Hmm?”

“Have you seen Jack?  He was supposed to be here at four.”

“Nah, no one has been here except us for the last hour,” his voice echoed in the quiet office.

It was not like Jack to be late or miss an appointment with her. They had been meeting regularly every Friday since she got him off the street and into housing. He was a bright seventeen year old whose parents kicked him out at fifteen when he came out as trans. If he had stayed in school, he would have aced his exams and easily gotten into any university for engineering. Two years on the street had led him to prostitution and drugs. Now that Mychelle had him warm and fed, he was working as a cashier at Tesco and taking programming classes.  Their appointment today was to discuss the therapist Mychelle had found for him to help with the medical and legal process of transitioning to male. 

Getting troubled kids out of prostitution and drug dens was not what Mychelle Holmes had planned on doing with her life when she went off to Oxford.  Raised mostly by her mother, but with a strong (if largely absent) influence of her step-father, and a Wycombe Abbey education, it was expected that Mychelle would go into law or politics.  Assisting homeless runaways, most of them gay, get off the streets and out of the sex trade, was not as ambitious or glamorous as her stepfather had wanted for her.  But her mother, who would have ended up single and potentially homeless herself when she found herself pregnant at a young age, if not for the arranged marriage to her cousin, Mycroft, was proud of the work Mychelle was doing. 

She dialed the mobile number she had for Jack. 

“No answer. Voice mail full.  Damn it.”  Mychelle mumbled to herself as she hung up.

Evan poked his head into her office.  His afro fade stuck out in all directions.  Evan had a nervous habit of twirling his hair while he worked, twisting the curls to varying lengths.  His rich, sepia skin looked tinged with gold in the glaring office lights.   “Any answer?”

“No,” she tossed her mobile onto a pile of folders.  

“That’s not like him.”  Evan ran his blunt fingertips over the short hair above his ear. “Do you think he’s back to turning tricks?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Let’s head over to the Tesco, yeah?  See if he’s working.  Maybe he picked up a shift.”

***

“Nah. Haven’t seen Jack in… oh… three, four days now.” The manager inhaled loudly through his teeth when he spoke.  “Was gonna fire him for not showin’ up, but I’m a softie for these kids tryin’ ta make it, know what I mean?”

Mychelle and Evan exchanged looks.  

“Mr. Driscoll,” Mychelle started.

“Doug,” he winked. 

Evan cringed. 

Mychelle plastered a smile onto her face.  “Doug, if you see or hear from Jack, please call our office at this number,” she handed him a card.  “And tell him we’re worried, yeah?”

“Will do.” Doug Driscoll slipped the card into his shirt pocket under his name tag.  

Once they were in the carpark Evan let out a loud groan.

“What sort of rock did he crawl out from under?  He’s properly creepy.”

“Just a product of his environment. I’m sure his father taught him by example to be lecherous in the presence of a woman. He’s got a good heart.  That’s why I send so many people here for work.”

“He was checking you out and I got the willies.”

Mychelle checked her phone for missed calls or texts. 

“You know, it’s been more than twenty-four hours since anyone has seen him. No one at work, no one at the shelter.” She sighed as she opened her text app.  “ My father is dating a detective…”

“Woah, you’re going to ask daddy’s girlfriend to look for Jack?”

“Boyfriend. And yeah, I am.”  Mychelle texted Mycroft.

_ I have a missing person case.  Can I get Greg’s number? M~ _

_ Greg is in homicide. You could go through the proper channels, you know.  Go to the local station. - MH _

_ Where does that handsome D.I. Miller work? M~ _

_ He is married.  I’ll forward Greg’s contact info shortly. - MH _

Evan laughed under his breath as he read the exchange.  “Forever manipulating daddy.”

She shrugged.  “He’s a decent man. Just very proper and set in his ways. Likes things done by the book. Or at least whatever book he is currently writing.”

“Isn’t he in the government or something?”

“My uncle often describes my father as ‘the government’.”  Text from Mycroft lit up her screen. “Here’s his info. Time to call in Scotland Yard.”

***

It wasn’t his division, but Greg took down the information about missing teen Jack Wells.  He would pass it on to the missing persons bureau, but keep an eye on it.  For Mychelle’s sake and for Mycroft’s.  Even though he did not spend time raising her, Mycroft was emotionally invested in his step-daughter.  Greg wanted to show his partner that what was important to him, was important to both of them. 

The fact that the impending visit of his own children weighed heavily on his mind had much to do with it.  Greg’s children were teenagers, not adults with degrees from Oxford and full time jobs, and a mum who had a certain level of fame as a middle-aged fashion model. Jenny and Tony were scrappy teens whose librarian mum ran off with a PE teacher.  

His phone buzzed.

_ One more week, dad!  Can’t wait to see you xoxox <3   _

_ Jenny Lestrade sent a photo _

The picture that followed was of his daughter, her brown hair tied up in a messy bun, face screwed up into a silly expression, tongue sticking out.  Greg smiled.  

_ Jenny Lestrade sent a photo _

_ Be warned, he’s got his ear done xoxox _

The second image was of Tony.  His hair was dyed black.  Lucy had assured him they used a temporary colour. He wore heavy eyeliner and black lipstick.  His right earlobe was bright red and slightly swollen.  A silver captive bead ring hung in a fresh hole that looked like it had not been done professionally. 

_ Make sure he keeps that thing clean.  We don’t need to ruin your holiday with a trip to Casualty to remove his ear. - Dad. _

_ LOL!  He’s a twit.  I’ll teach him. No worries xoxox _

His office door opened. Mycroft leaned against the door frame, one leg crossed in front of the other, gently swinging his umbrella.  He wore a dark blue three piece suit, immaculate white shirt and a tie the same shade of grey as the pinstripes in his suit. His hair was recently trimmed, and his face clean shaven.  

“How did you get that brolly through the metal detectors?”  Greg eyed it suspiciously. 

“It’s not one of my multi-purpose ones.” Mycroft grinned.  

Greg smirked, looked into his partner’s face, and smiled broadly.  “What are you doing here?”

“I was under the impression we were having dinner with my parents and the Watson-Holmes contingent this evening.” 

“Cor, yeah, right.” Greg tidied some papers on his desk.  It was meet the parents as the boyfriend family dinner night.  “Mychelle called me about a missing kid that she works with.  I just sent it over to Khan in missing persons.  I’ll shut down.  Just gimme a minute.”

“If you need to work late, Greg, we can cancel.”

“No.  No.  Sorry. I was just distracted and lost track of the time.  I’m all set.”  Greg grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and pocketed his mobile.  He walked up to Mycroft, stopping short of touching him. Greg stood in his personal space, mere inches away.

Mycroft tapped Greg’s shin gently with his umbrella.  “Are you about to initiate a public display of affection, Detective Inspector?” One eyebrow arched up. “I didn’t think you were comfortable being out to the entire police service.”

“Damn,” he said under his breath.  He took half a step back. “It’s not right that I can’t just walk up to my  _ boyfriend  _ and give him a little peck when he stops by my office.”

Mycroft looked at him with a mix of pity and understanding. “May I remind you,” he said softly. “That it is your choice to not be open at your workplace about our relationship.  Loving one another is legal. We have every right to decent and restrained public displays of affection.”  He tilted his head slightly, gaze moving from Greg’s mouth to his brown eyes.  “Within reason.”

“Respecting societal norms,” Greg added, gaze fixed upon Mycroft’s lips.

“Indeed. No one, no matter who they love, should engage in lewd displays.”  Mycroft’s breath was warm on Greg’s lips.

Greg nudged his nose softly against Mycroft’s.  “I’ll save my lewd displays for later.” With a little smile, Greg leaned up to press his lips to Mycroft’s.

“About damned time,” Sharma said as she walked past.  “I thought you’d never out yourself, sir.”  She winked at him as she turned the corner, her long black ponytail swinging behind her.

Mycroft grinned.  “Dhanwaad.”

“Posh  _ and _ multilingual.”  Sharma stopped short and turned to look approvingly at Mycroft.  “Have a good evening, gentlemen.”  She smiled at Lestrade as she continued on her way.

Anderson walked by with Donovan.  “Oh thank goodness.  I was hoping it was someone descent.” 

Donovan pulled a fiver out of her pocket.  “I can’t believe I lost that one.”

“Told you he had good taste in men.”  Anderson pocketed the money.

***

“Is that why your parents split?  Because your dad’s gay?”  Evan stabbed the bits of kebab on his plate.

“What?” Mychelle looked up from her phone.  “No,” she chuckled under her breath. “My gran passed away when my mother was young.  She was raised by her father, but looked after a lot by my Aunt Lydia. Mum found herself up the duff pretty young by what my aunt likes to call ‘a totally inappropriate young man’.  He was older, had a drink problem and was prone to violence.  So Aunt Lydia arranged for her eldest son to marry my mother and adopt me.  They stayed married for a bit, and they grew to be good friends.  Mum and I moved to France.  Father was always visiting and sending gifts. He wasn’t there every day for stories and field hockey matches and bedtimes, but he always answered when I phoned. And he spent as much time with us as he could.  I never felt like a stepchild.  I just felt like any other kid whose parents are divorced, I guess.”

Delivery drivers rushed in and out the side door.  Customers were wandering in for their Friday night take-aways or to find a table.  The owner shouted out orders in Greek to his staff.  Phones rang.  Grills sizzled with meat and veg.  Evan dipped a bit of lamb in tzatziki.

“Did your dad’s boyfriend have anything to say about Jack?”

“He took down the info and said he’d pass it on to missing persons.  I’m afraid a homeless trans kid may not be top priority for the Met.” She sighed and moved a chunk of lamb around on her plate. 

“Isn’t your uncle that famous bloke?  The one with the hat?”

Mychelle chuckled.  “Sherlock Holmes. Not sure how he feels about being known for that hat.  I’ve only met him a few times.  I’ll see if mum has his number.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes as Mycroft's partner. Angelo (based on the Angelo played by Joseph Long in the gay pilot) delivers dinner. Olivia learns Italian.

John sat in his chair, Olivia in his lap, reading aloud from his med school copy of Grey’s Anatomy.  It never ceased to amuse him the variety of books she chose to have read aloud.  And if he tried to tell her it was not appropriate, or the words were too big, she would simply declare Papa would read it to her.  Then John would cave in. John read everything from Peppa Pig to Dr. Seuss, from medical textbooks to Sherlock’s much read copy of Captain Singleton.  Olivia having limited interest in sitting through entire books without pictures, John found he was only reading random excerpts.

Sherlock dashed up the stairs, clearing the safety gate with a graceful half-step, half-leap.

Olivia applauded.  Sherlock, in a bespoke blue suit and pale grey shirt, spun and bowed. 

“Don’t encourage him,” John said close to her ear as he kissed his daughter’s head. 

“Papa’s funny.”

“Has Sophie been here?” Sherlock looked around the sitting room.

“No one’s been here. I’ve only been back for about an hour, though.  Did you ask Mrs. Hudson?”

“Hudders said it was quiet all morning.”

“Who is Sophie?” John put the book on the floor as Olivia scrambled out of his lap and headed towards Sherlock. 

“One of my homeless network.  Tall girl, willowy,” Sherlock gestured in the air before him, as if to conjure her image.  “Short cropped hair.  Lately it has been blue,” he scooped up Olivia.  “Carries a tartan knapsack.”

“Ah,” John recalled her from a case they worked on recently.  She had provided information about a man stalking rape victims.  The perp had not been caught yet.  “Is she helping out with a case?  Do we have something new?”

“Yes and no.  Yes, she’s helping with a case, but it’s the stalker one.  Caleb said he saw someone standing outside a woman’s flat for a week before there was a break-in.  No rape was reported, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.  There are some similarities in the cases.  I asked Caleb to put the word out that I need to see Sophie two days ago.  She never goes this long without contacting me once I’ve asked for her.”

“Could she have gotten off the streets?  Got housing?  Rehab?”  John suggested hopefully.

Olivia, done with hugging her father, squirmed until Sherlock put her down.  She wandered over to the baby gate, lifted the latch, closed it gently behind her and wandered upstairs.  She shouted “Going to my room!” 

John closed his eyes for a moment.  “Why do we bother with the gates anymore?”

“Sophie would not have gotten off the streets.  And she isn’t a junkie.”  Sherlock pulled his mobile out and typed quickly.

“Why wouldn’t she have gotten off the streets?  Isn’t it better to have a safe place to go than to live in uncertainty?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “John, not every human being needs or craves the comforts of modern living.  Sophie was raised by hippies who joined up with a group of Irish travelers.  She’s accustomed to living rough and prefers it that way.”  He threw himself into his chair, one leg over the arm.

John got up to put Grey’s Anatomy back on the shelf.  

“Coo-eee!” Lydia’s voice carried up the stairs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Hello Mother.”

“Behave,” John mouthed at his husband.  

Mrs. Holmes unlatched the safety gate.  She swept her windblown blonde hair out of her eyes. “Where is Olivia?”

“It’s never about wanting to see me anymore.” Sherlock pouted from his chair.

“You never wanted it to be about seeing you,” John quipped.

Lydia sighed and shrugged her shoulders, the blue cardigan moving with her breath.  It was long and light-weight, and brought out her eyes, so like her youngest son’s. 

“John, dear.”  He crossed the room to have both his cheeks kissed by his mother-in-law.  “Where is my grandbaby?”

“She just went up to her room.” He indicated the staircase behind her. 

“On her own?” she asked incredulously.

“Not quite three and she’s already acting like a teenager.” John looked at the baby gate.  “Not even sure if we need to keep these installed anymore. She knows how to unlatch them.  Just unlocks and off she goes to her room.”

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll go downstairs and get out?” Lydia placed a hand over her heart.

“Mrs. Hudson has put the fear of Nanny into her.” John smiled. “Mrs. Hudson told her if she hears tiny feet coming down the stairs there won’t be any more gingernuts for tea.”

Lydia laughed.  “That will work for a bit, but not forever. But good for Martha for making it work for now.”

Mr. Holmes appeared at the landing.  He fussed with the latch.  “Can someone help me with this?”

Lydia chuckled.  “Oh, Gregory, you are hopeless.  Olivia knows how to do that.”

John smiled as he unlatched the gate.  “No worries. It’s actually a bit tricky til you get the hang of it.  It is really only baby proof, not genius toddler proof.”  He shut the gate behind  his father-in-law.  

“John,” Mr. Holmes shook his hand.  “Where are Mycroft and his young man?”

“Oh, did he tell you?” John scratched his scalp. He didn’t remember Mycroft saying he told his parents that he and Lestrade had become a couple. In fact, he had recently had pints with Lestrade where he bemoaned the fact that the Holmes’ didn’t know about their relationship and he hoped he had made a good enough impression on them during the wedding planning.

“All Mikey told me was that he had been seeing a gentleman for some months and wanted to introduce him to us over dinner with the family.”

“Please don’t call me that, Mother.” Mycroft droned from the hall.

Sherlock craned his neck to catch a glimpse of a nervous Lestrade behind his brother.  He stayed in his chair.

“Such a fussy boy,” she reached across the gate to pat his flushed cheek.  “Young Greg! What a pleasant surp… oh!”  Lydia’s face lit up.  She looked from Lestrade to Mycroft, then turned to look at John. John nodded slightly, a smile in his eyes. “Oh, lovely!”  She unhitched the gate to usher them inside.  She kissed Mycroft’s cheek, looking into his eyes. Satisfied that she saw happiness in their grey depths, she swept Lestrade into a hug. He let out a small “Ooof” as she squeezed him around the middle. 

“Father,” Mycroft nodded towards Mr. Holmes.  

Gregory patted his eldest son on the shoulder.  “I was hoping it was him, son,” he whispered.  

Mycroft looked at his father in surprise. 

“Oh, oh, Gregory,” Lydia reached towards her husband.  Tears welled in her eyes.  Mr. Holmes reached into his suit jacket pocket for a handkerchief. Mrs. Holmes dabbed her eyes.  

“I brought extra,” he winked at Lestrade as he patted his pocket.  “She gets emotional when she’s happy.”  He reached out a hand and shook Lestrade’s warmly. “If she wasn’t pleased about you two, she wouldn’t be crying,” he half whispered. 

“Oh, stop,” Lydia swatted his arm. She continued to dab away the tears of happiness.  

John smiled at his family in the room.  His heart was full.  He turned to look at his husband. Not even Sherlock, slumped in his chair and making faces at the effusive display of affection, could stop John from being happy.  He was married to a wonderful, though frustrating, man.  Their daughter was happy and brilliant and well loved.  His in-laws were overjoyed to finally see their sons coupled. And his good friend was in a relationship with his brother-in-law.  John never would have imagined Lestrade would fall in love with a man.  He never even considered Mycroft was bisexual with a preference for romantic male partners.  At least not until one night between his wedding and New Year’s when Mycroft showed up late at night with a bottle of Glenfiddich to have a ‘heart-to-heart’. 

“Gramma!”  Olivia shouted as she toddled down the stairs.  She expertly unlatched the gate.  She patted Mycroft and Greg’s legs as she passed them.  Lydia reached down to scoop her up. 

“Careful, Mrs. Holmes. She’s getting to be a big girl.” John cautioned. 

“Oh, John, if you won’t call me Mummy, do at least call me Lydia. You’re one of my boys now.”  She kissed Olivia’s cheek before she set her back on the floor.  “That goes for you, too, young Greg.”  She cupped Lestrade’s stubbled cheeks in her soft hands.  “You are to call me Lydia or Mummy.  None of this formal business.  I won’t have it.”  She tapped him gently on the tip of his nose with her finger before she stepped back. 

“Oh, Mycroft, before I forget,” she unzipped her handbag.  “I believe this is what you requested.”  She handed him a sturdy brown envelope.  

Mycroft slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.  “Thank you, Mother.” 

Lydia nodded solemnly.

Sherlock unfolded himself from his chair and went to the hall. He stepped over the latched gate with ease. Everyone looked quizzically towards him.  Mycroft craned his neck towards the front windows and nodded. “Dinner has arrived.”

Mycroft’s words were confirmed by the commotion at the front door.  “Stai attento!  Careful, idiot. Be careful.  Oh, Mrs. Hudson, so sorry.  Forgive my nephew. He just arrived in England.  No manners on the boy.”  Angelo’s voice filled the stairwell.  

“Angelo!” Olivia unlatched the gate.  She stood on the top step, bouncing on her toes.  She fisted Sherlock’s trouser leg at the knee.

“Cara mia, I be right there!  I have your favourite, bella!” 

“Papa! Angelo’s here!” she said excitedly as she tugged on Sherlock’s trouser leg. 

Sherlock smiled and stroked her head.  “What’s your favourite?”

“Pasta with sauce and cheese and meatballs.  Papa, I love Angelo’s meatballs. They  _ delizioso.” _

Sherlock swept her into his arms as Angelo, his nephew and two other young men from the restaurant carried up aluminum trays and large takeaway bags. They walked through the kitchen door where John greeted them. The scents of marinara, basil, oregano, hot cheese and Angelo’s house dressing filled their noses.  

“There’s my favourite little lady!” Angelo paused on the landing beside Sherlock. His hands were full with a canvas bag of bottles of wine and a lined bag with gelato on ice packs.  He leaned his face towards Olivia who promptly kissed him on both cheeks. 

“Buon giorno!” Olivia said. 

“Good, good!” Angelo laughed.  “Your pronunciation is so much better.  I’ll teach you a new word if you’re a good girl and eat all your dinner, okay?”

Inside the kitchen John helped the men lay out trays of ravioli, eggplant and chicken parmesan, antipasto and a single portion of pasta and meatballs.  Angelo put the gelato in the freezer.  Sherlock uncorked the wine.  Olivia waited patiently on the landing.  Once the three younger men had unpacked the meal, Angelo ushered them out the door.  He sat on the top step.  Olivia sat beside him.

“Okay, cara mia, I can’t stay to make sure you finish your dinner, but I teach you a new word anyway, okay?”

Olivia’s blue eyes widened. She nodded and placed her hands in her lap.  

Angelo stroked the top of her blonde head.  “Okay. Today we learn please.   _ Per favore _ .”

Olivia watched the muscles in his face and the shape of his lips.  Her ears drank in the sound.

“Per favore.” Angelo repeated.

“Per favore.”

“Brilliante! Perfetto!”  Angelo kissed the top of her head.  “You practice, okay? I see you soon.”

“Grazie, Angelo.  Ciao!”

He chuckled as he walked downstairs.

Olivia walked into the flat muttering  _ per favore _ to herself.

John and Sherlock sat in their usual chairs by the fireplace.  John balanced a plate of eggplant parm and antipasto on his knees.  Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat at the cleared off desk, busily attacking their plates with forks and knives. Mycroft and Lestrade sat on the couch, left foot pressed against right foot, knees and legs not touching.  Mycroft looked uncomfortable as he ate his antipasto.  Greg happily devoured chicken and sipped the fine red wine.  Olivia sat on her large purple pillow on the floor at the coffee table, facing her uncles.  Dinner was mostly silent, with the occasional “Can I pour anyone more wine?” from John and exclamations from everyone on how Angelo had outdone himself this evening. 

The mid-May evening was damp and chilly.  Sherlock set a fire while John and Lydia cleared up plates.  Mr. Holmes washed dishes.  Olivia crawled into Greg’s lap with a copy of Green Eggs and Ham in Italian. 

“Vuoi provarli a tavolino?  Vuoi provarli col topino?” 

“Your pronunciation is flawless, but you lack a regional accent,” Mycroft commented.  

“That’s not relevant to eating ham with a mouse or in a house, Uncle Myc.” Olivia rolled her eyes, looking very much like her father in that moment. 

Greg chuckled.  “Where did you learn the word ‘relevant’?” 

“Papa.”

“Of course.”

Greg kissed the back of her blonde head.  “Will you make tea for me after I finish reading this?”

“Will you read it in French, too?” She turned her wide blue eyes towards him. 

“We have a deal.” 

“Young Greg, you’re so wonderful with Olivia.”  Mrs. Holmes commented once the dishes were all cleared up.

“Well, I have two of my own, so I’ve had practice.”

“You have children?” Lydia brightened as she sat beside him on the sofa.

“Yeah.  They aren’t cute and small anymore.  Jenny is sixteen and Tony is fourteen.”

“Oh my!” she squeezed his arm.  “Why aren’t they here? I’d love to meet them.”

“Jennifer and Anthony live with their mother in Cornwall,” Mycroft answered.

“Oh, what a pity. Do you get to see them often?”

“Uh, yeah.  Well, not as often as I’d like. But they are coming to stay with us during school holiday next week.”

Sherlock paused a quiet conversation he was having with his father. He turned his attention to the other side of the room.  “You’re going to allow teenagers in your house?” He addressed the question to his brother.

Greg swallowed. He’d been nervous about having his kids stay with them. As much as Mycroft had gone out of his way to make Greg feel like the house was theirs and not just a Holmes bachelor mansion, he was nervous about having his kids stay with them.  Mycroft had lived alone for so long. He was used to quiet and elegance. His house - their home - was orderly and the staff kept it free of greasy finger smudges and dust.  The last time Greg lived with his children everything seemed to be covered in sticky rings of juice and crisp dust.

Mycroft saw the nervousness in Greg’s face.  He lengthened his neck, looked down his nose at his brother, and gave a half smile.  “My partner’s children are welcome to visit their father in  _ his _ home. And if they choose to go to university in London, they would be most welcome to live in their father’s house.”

John thought Lydia’s eyebrows were going to get lost in her fringe, she raised them so high.  He felt his own expression probably looked as shocked as hers.  He looked to Sherlock and Gregory.  Sherlock was pleased. He probably felt he was a positive influence on his older brother. Mr. Holmes struggled to not look surprised. But it was Lestrade’s expression that made John’s breath catch.  Greg looked at Mycroft with tears on the edges of his eyes; bottom lip dropped, heavy with awe, and his expression one of adoration and gratitude.

“Don’t forget, Mychelle was once a teenager as well.” Mycroft added.

Lydia guffawed. “Oh really, Mikey.  Mychelle was at boarding school, and she was either in France with her mother, or with me and your father on school breaks.”

“I… visited her from time to time.” Mycroft shifted uncomfortably.

Greg came to his rescue.  “She’s a lovely young lady.  I can see your influence on her.”  He rested a hand on Mycroft’s knee. “She’s brilliant and honest and loves you very much.”  Mycroft’s cheek went pink.  Greg turned to his left to smile at Lydia.  “I was just speaking to Mychelle earlier today.  Potential missing persons case.”

“Um, Uncle Greg?” Olivia tapped on the open copy of Prosciutto e Uova Verdi.  “Can we finish my story please?”

Mycroft leaned closer to Greg, shoulders, arms and thighs pressed easily against one another.  He tilted his head to better hear Greg reading Dr. Seuss in Italian, then French and finally in English to their niece. Mycroft was silently impressed at Lestrade’s Belgian French accent while reading Les Oeufs Verts au Jambon. Lydia got John to dig out the Cluedo board and proceeded to win two rounds against her husband, Sherlock and John. Olivia never made tea for Uncle Greg.  Instead they lay jelly babies in their gelato until they got stiff, and then had a contest to see who could melt them under their tongues and chew them first.   

Despite the after dinner sweets, Olivia was asleep in Sherlock’s arms at 9:30.  He was loathe to move while she slumbered peacefully against him, and while the conversation in the room was in low, happy tones.  John gave up his chair to Mr. Holmes, and perched himself on the edge of Sherlock’s chair.  He ran his fingers absentmindedly through Sherlock’s curls while he discussed the most recent James Bond film with his father in law. Lydia cornered Lestrade in the kitchen by dragging him in to help her make coffee.  Mycroft leaned against the sliding glass doors, watching Greg move around the kitchen, deflecting the  more probing questions from his mother to save himself and Lestrade from embarrassment.

“Oh, Mikey,” Lydia shot an electric blue squint in his direction as she placed cups and saucers on the tray.  “If you ever brought  _ anyone _ home before I would be asking the same questions.”

Greg looked up, bemused. “You never brought anyone home to meet your parents before?”

Mycroft swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbed in his strained neck.  “There was never anyone before.”

While Greg knew that Mycroft had lovers in the past, he had not been aware until that moment that he was the first serious relationship his partner had ever had. Except his marriage to Portia, of course.

“No one?” Greg mouthed the words. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a thin line and shook his head. He looked down as he shifted his weight.  He could feel Greg’s gaze.  When he looked up again, Greg beamed at him. Mycroft felt his cheeks grow warm.

“Mikey, why are you blushing?  Did young Gregory here make a lewd suggestion when I wasn’t looking?”  Lydia winked and nudged Lestrade with her elbow.  “Keep it up, young man.  I like it when my son looks happy.”  Lydia brought the tray to the sitting room.  

Greg ran a hand over his silver and grey hair.  Mycroft smirked.  Greg pointed at his hair.  “Young man?” he mouthed.  Greg pressed his lips together tightly to attempt to suppress the smile that was spreading across his face. 

“Come get your coffee, boys, before it gets cold,” Lydia beaconed them.

Greg walked around the table to Mycroft, stood on his toes and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s smoothly shaved cheek.  “If I have coffee now I’ll be up all night,” he whispered.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.  “Promise?” 

Lestrade’s dark eyes glimmered playfully.  “Get me home and find out.”

“After coffee.” 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where smut happens for two happy couples in their respective homes.

John stood at the fireplace, half empty wine glass in his hand, staring into the dying embers.  His face was relaxed, lips soft with contentment, his eyes unfocused.  Sherlock stood in the doorway to the sitting room, observing his husband in the dim light.  

“Olivia’s out.” Sherlock said softly.

John’s mouth curved into a full smile.  “Thank you for putting her to bed.  The dishes are all cleared.”

“Thank you for this evening.”

John turned.  Sherlock was backlit with the light in the stairwell.  “We had our family over for dinner.  Nothing to thank me for.”

Sherlock slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. He crossed the room.  “I find them tedious.  You accept them without question as family and are always welcoming and gracious to them.  I am grateful for you, John.” His tone was sincere.  Sherlock reached out to stroke his husband’s arm.  “Thank you for being the nicer half of our marriage.”

John pursed his lips in a grin.  “We aren’t so much ‘opposites attract’ as we are complimentary to one another.” He slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, drawing him closer.  Sherlock bent his head so their lips could meet in a tender, lingering kiss.  

“Mmmm,” Sherlock’s baritone vibrated between them.  “That wine Angelo brought tastes better on your lips than in my glass.” He flicked his tongue across John’s bottom lip.

“I quite like it.  I believe he said it’s Tuscan.” John drained his glass and placed it on the mantle. 

“I did not say that I did not like it,” he took John’s bottom lip between his own, sucking briefly. “I said I like it better on your lips.”

“Oh,” John exhaled.  His heart rate rocketed from his usual resting rate of about 60 BPM to something closer to that of a hummingbird.  

“We’ve had a busy and exhausting nine days,” Sherlock’s fingers rested against the pulse point below John’s right ear.  He leaned down to lay kisses along the left of his neck.  “We haven’t had the time or the energy to devote to the upkeep of the intimate part of our marriage.”  He gently bit into John’s tight trapezius.  

John wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s waist, pressing his growing erection into his husband’s thigh. “You’re gagging for a shag, Mr. Watson Holmes.” 

“Don’t be so crass,” his voice was low and deep and so very close to John’s ear. A shiver raced up his spine and he pressed himself closer to Sherlock.

“I haven’t even had the time to get off in the shower this week.  I’m not going to last long.” He cupped Sherlock’s ass firmly.

A decadent smile curled Sherlock’s lips.  “You only have to last long enough to shuck your trousers and get my mouth around your cock.”

They fumbled with each other’s buttons and buckles and zippers.  The seam at the neck of John’s undershirt tore a bit as he ripped it hurriedly over his head.  One of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt pinged off the fire guard. Shoes, trousers and pants were flung about the room.  

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pinning his arms to his sides.  He guided John to kneel, then lay upon the rug in front of the fire.  He kissed a trail from John’s lips and chin, down his chest and belly.  He paused with his nose about to nuzzle into the thatch of silvery blonde hair at the base of John’s erect cock.  John grabbed Sherlock by the hair, holding his mouth a breath away from the shining, moist tip. 

“I’ll be spent after you swallow.  Same time. On your knees.” 

John sucked on one finger as Sherlock straddled him.  He took his wet digit and circled Sherlock’s anus.  Sherlock let out a low groan.  He licked a line from the base of John’s penis to the tip, then licked at the tip.  John bucked, eager to be lost in the heat of his husband’s mouth.  Sherlock held the base of John’s cock in his right hand, left palm pressed into the floor for support. The saline flavour of pre-come and heady scent of perspiration and the coconut shower gel John recently favoured, filled Sherlock’s mouth and nose.  He slowly took John’s erection into his mouth, firmly running his tongue along the topside as he deep throated him. 

John threw his head back.  The heat and pressure of Sherlock’s mouth was almost more than he could stand. Solving crimes, getting hours in at the clinic, being a parent and trying to enjoy being a newlywed were exhausting.  Not having time for regular intimacy, sex, or masturbation had been causing him stress.  His whole body screamed for release. This position was his idea.  Exhausted as he was, he needed to give his husband pleasure. He pressed his wet finger inside the tight ring of muscle, eliciting a vibrating moan from Sherlock, his mouth full of John’s cock.  John licked Sherlock’s shaved scrotum.  He laughed inside his head.  This was a fresh shave.  He most likely did this after company left. John took one testicle into his mouth as he slid his left hand along the length of Sherlock’s shaft. 

John’s finger slipped in easily to the second knuckle.  He realized Sherlock had already liberally applied lube and had loosened himself.  No wonder it took him so long to make sure Olivia was tucked into bed.  He must have slipped quietly into the bath to prepare himself.  He slipped a second finger in, scissoring and going deeper.  Sherlock’s lips tightened around the tip of John’s cock.  John bucked, wanting to fuck that perfect mouth.  He was so close to coming.  He stroked Sherlock with rapid, tight strokes while his fingers fucked his ass and John sucked and licked the shaved scrotum. He felt Sherlock’s testicles tighten as his own orgasm built.  Just as John felt himself release into his husband’s mouth, Sherlock let out a strangled cry of release.  Some of it got on John’s hand. 

“I just shot myself in the face,” Sherlock’s voice was deep and low.

John let out an exhausted laugh.  “Turn round. Perhaps you need a doctor.”

Sherlock turned around, careful not to knock John in the head with his knee.  He straddled his husband’s hips; warm, moist, spent cocks pressed together.  He presented his come splattered chin for inspection. John, with a smile, licked the ejaculate that glistened on Sherlock’s chin and along his jawline.  

“I believe you’ll heal nicely, Mr. Watson Holmes.” He kissed Sherlock’s swollen lips.

“I’d be so lost without you, Doctor.” Sherlock winked.

“At least you’d be less likely to shoot yourself in the face,” he chuckled.  “Come on, help me up and let’s go to bed.”

***

Mycroft stood before his mirror as he undressed.  He carefully laid his silk tie on the glass top of his dressing table.  He’d hang it later, or in the morning. His cufflinks made a little noise as he placed them in the glass dish. He was tired and happy. Dinner with his family had been pleasant. His parents were appropriately excited about his partner. His parents… Mycroft took the envelope from his mother out of his interior jacket pocket.  He stood by his dressing table, cuffs hanging open, staring at the simple brown envelope.  He had not seen the contents in years. His manicured fingertips caressed the blank outside, his mind reaching back in time. Was it thirty-five years?  Thirty-seven?  So much had changed. 

Greg came into the bedroom from the ensuite, plush white bath sheet wrapped around his hips.  His wet hair was dark and slicked back on his head.  He hummed a pop song under his breath as he rummaged through a drawer to find shorts.

“What did your mother give you?” Greg asked, not looking up from his search for shorts.  

“Some old family photos. I’ll show you later. Tomorrow. When I’m not tired.”

Greg stood up and looked curiously at his partner.  “This is the first night you’ve been home since Tuesday.  Have you been sleeping at all?”  

Mycroft smiled.  He adored the way Greg’s voice was full of concern for his well being, and acceptance that their careers kept them apart sometimes for days on end.  “No, I haven’t slept much.”  Greg dropped his damp towel and put one foot in a pair of burgundy cotton shorts he found. “No shorts.”  Greg stopped, naked, the shorts around one ankle, and arched a brow. “You said you’d be up all night after coffee.” He winked. Mycroft draped his suit jacket over a chair, and began working the buttons on his waistcoat. “You were wonderful this evening.  My parents, who already liked you, now adore you.  The way you read Green Eggs and Ham to Olivia in three languages made my heart, which I once thought did not function on an emotional level, increase its rate.  You are charming and intelligent and sexy.”  Mycroft toed off his shoes and worked the buckle on his belt.  “And it has been too many nights since I’ve kissed you or touched you.”

Greg grinned and kicked the shorts across the room.  “It’s been three days.”

“Ages.”  Mycroft’s trousers fell into a puddle at his feet.  

Lestrade knelt on the mattress, cock hanging between his legs slowly grew and hardened as he watched his partner undress.  “What did you have in mind, Mr. Holmes?”

“I was thinking of holding you close while my hands reacquainted themselves with every inch of your naked skin they can reach while I kiss you.”

Greg put on a look of mock sorrow.  “Is that all?”

“Oh, Detective Inspector, I had  _ two _ cups of coffee.” Mycroft, now fully undressed, knelt on their bed opposite Greg.  “That will just be the start.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mychelle and Evan continue to worry about their missing teens. John gets a visit from his mother, sister and Clara with some unexpected news.

**Friday, one week later**

Evan nervously twirled his umber curls.  He bounced one foot on the floor, impatient and nervous, as he waited for Mychelle.  They had been at the police station for hours.  He had consumed all the paper cups of bitter coffee and tea his stomach could handle.  The only edibles on offer were some pastries that look like they had been out since early morning and the preservative filled snacks in the machine. He looked at his phone.  Maybe they could grab some chips at the food cart around the corner when they left. 

Mychelle opened the door of the office.  She nodded at something the detective said.  They shook hands. 

“Thank you again, Detective Khan.” 

“Call me if you hear from either of them.” The detective patted Mychelle’s shoulder.  Khan tucked her short, dark hair behind her ear.  She nodded towards Evan.  “Take my card as well,” she handed one to his caffeine fueled hand.  “And go get some proper food.  You’re well hyped.”  

Mychelle looked from the female detective to her work partner.  His knee was still bouncing a kilometer a minute. “There’s truck with chips on the corner.”

Evan held the detective’s card in both hands as they left the station.  “Priya Khan.  She was very nice.  DoesshehaveanyleadsonJack?” 

Mychelle stopped in her tracks.  “Mate, you’ve got to stop drinking so much coffee.” She tucked the detective’s card into her handbag.  

There was a bench near the chip vendor.  Mychelle sat, chips untouched in her lap, and stared out blankly.  Evan ate his fried potatoes with the enthusiasm of a small child.  He hummed while he chewed.  

“It’s been a week since I was supposed to see Jack.”  Mychelle placed her chips on the bench between them.  “And now it’s been two days since anyone has seen Aine.”  She pulled her mobile from her blazer pocket.  “They would not just disappear like this.  I think they were taken.”

Evan swallowed loudly.  “You mean against their will?”

“Nothing else makes sense. Both of them were getting their lives in order.  They were doing so well.”

 

***

Barking at Baker Street?  John stopped on the stoop, key in the lock.  Olivia looked up at her father then towards the sitting room windows of their flat. 

“Daddy, is that a puppy?”

Two distinct barks rang out.  “Sounds more like two full grown dogs, love.”  He unlocked the door and hefted Olivia onto his hip, leather satchel bumped against his rear end as he climbed the stairs.  

The door was open. Two yellow labs sat by the couch, tails thumping loudly against the floor.  Margaret and Sherlock sat with them, scratching them behind their ears.  Clara and Harry were seated across from them. 

“Mum?” John looked around the room. 

Jake and Gwen each barked once before sitting at John’s feet.  He reached out with his free hand to pat their heads.  Jake put one paw up towards Olivia.  Olivia, having limited experience with dogs, clung tightly to her dad. 

“It’s okay, love.  Jake’s a good boy.  He wants to be your friend.”  John said softly. 

The yellow lab wagged his tail and panted, large brown eyes wide.  Gwen nuzzled her wet nose against Olivia’s ankle.

“Doggy’s nose is wet,” she wrinkled her face in distaste. 

Sherlock tapped his thigh and both dogs rushed to his knees. He scratched their heads simultaneously and lowered his face for them to lick his cheeks. 

“Ew, Papa. That’s gross.” 

Everyone laughed softly.

“Mum, why do you have the dogs?”  John dropped his satchel to the floor, but continued to stand with Olivia on his hip to keep her away from the labs. 

“Dad died, Johnny.”  Harry folded her hands in her lap. 

John looked to every face, waiting for a further explanation. No one seemed willing to explain further.  The silence, lasting only seconds but feeling like interminable minutes, pressed upon them all. 

“When?  How?”

“Last week apparently.”  Clara replied.  “Heart attack. He told the neighbours before he passed that he didn’t want the family notified.  The dogs were going to be put down because no one wanted them.  One of Maggie’s friends from the WI took them and brought them up on the train this morning.”  Clara squeezed Harry’s hands.  Harry nodded. “And that’s when we found out that Hamish died.”

“Just found out this morning?”  John placed Olivia on the floor.  She made a wide path around the coffee table towards her aunts to avoid the dogs.  She climbed into Harry’s lap.  Olivia kissed her aunt’s cheek and ran her tiny fingers through Harry’s short hair.  

Sherlock stood, silently gesturing to the dogs to stay.  They obeyed him without hesitation.  He stood beside John, looked down into his wide blue eyes and waited.  His posture was open and relaxed, receptive to whatever comfort or action his husband needed in the moment. John rolled his shoulders and straightened his spine.  He reached out the fingers of his right hand.  Sherlock wrapped his own long pale digits around them. 

“Right then.”  He looked up at his husband, breathed, then looked to his mother.  “Not sure how I feel about this, to be honest.  The last time I saw him he said he wanted nothing to do with us.  Frankly, he was dead to me that day in Cornwall.”

Sherlock bowed his head, remembering the scene in the pub.  Harry nodded, silently recalling her own horrible coming out to their father years ago.

“He was a mean hearted man, with a small mind.”  

Everyone turned, stunned, to stare at Margaret Watson.  

“He never really loved anyone or anything.”  She folded her hands in her lap.  “He married me because I was the only girl foolish enough to say yes.  He was terrified of being alone, but hated having a family.  Even if you kids turned out the way his tiny, prejudiced mind imagined, he may have only ever been mollified.  He’d never have been happy.”

Clara realized her mouth was hanging open in shock.  She pressed her lips together tightly. She never had the misfortune of meeting her father-in-law.  She looked at Sherlock.  They shared an uncomfortable glance and nodded slightly.  Sherlock patted his thigh.  The dogs walked to his side.  Clara joined them. 

John looked quizzically at them. 

“Dogs need to be walked.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead.  

John nodded.

Clara clipped the leads to their collars.  Sherlock took Olivia’s mac from the peg.  The child, well versed in her Papa’s non-verbal clues, slipped her arms into the sleeves and unlatched the baby gate.

“They didn’t have to leave,” Margaret said once the front door closed.

Harry filled her lungs deeply, and exhaled with a slight noise.  “They are our family, but they were never his.”

“Damn him,” John paced.  “Damn him and his fear of things he didn’t understand.  Damn him for not being a dad. Damn him for not loving his children for being who they are.  And…” John’s breath hitched.  Tears rimmed his eyes.  “And damn him for not loving you, mum.”  He sat beside Margaret, taking her hand. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Margaret smiled weakly.  “He gave me two wonderful children, who have given me a loving family.”

Harry got up to sit at her mother’s other side.

Margaret squeezed their hands. “No one can tell us how to grieve.  Nor berate us if we choose not to. If I cry, it may be out of a sense of relief. I want you both to know how very proud I am of you. And how very blessed I am that I have you both back.”

They each leaned in to press kisses to her soft, wrinkled cheeks.  

“Bastard that Hamish Watson was, his miserly ways kept a lot aside. I’ve got quite a savings to my name now. John, can we leave Jake and Gwen with you while the girls take me to the solicitor’s office?  It’s just here in London.  Branch office or something.”

“We’ll take the dogs with us later. Since we moved to the house in Harrow, we’ve loads of room for them.”

“Yeah,” John shook himself out of his stunned fog.  “Yeah, no worries.  Sherlock loves dogs. Always wanted one as a child, but his dad’s allergic.”

Margaret stood, clutching her handbag and her knitting bag. “He’s a good man, your husband. Don’t cock it up.” She patted his cheek and walked out.

“Cheeky old hag, isn’t she?” Harry whispered and kissed her brother’s cheek.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lestrade children arrive in London. Mychelle gets her Uncle Sherlock in on the case.

**Saturday**

Greg bounced on the balls of his feet.  He had left an investigation into an attempted murder in Miller’s hands before taking off for the week.  It didn’t feel like a proper holiday.  No trip to the hills of Scotland for hiking, or to the beach in Brighton, not even a quick flight to Paris for a romantic weekend with Mycroft.  This was far more daunting than being introduced to Lydia and Gregory Holmes as their eldest son’s live-in partner.  This week would potentially be less relaxing than chasing Sherlock and John around the city. 

The rumble of the train, clickety-clack, reached his ears before the horn.  The sleek cobalt blue cars slowed and stopped.  The Cornwall Sleeper had been Mycroft’s idea.  Jenny and Tony had never traveled on their own before.  Lucy was reluctant to allow them, and got into a shouting match with Greg on the phone.  Mycroft swept into the room, took the mobile from Greg’s hand, and walked to the other end of the house.  When he returned four minutes later, with the call disengaged, he slipped the mobile into Greg’s trouser pocket with a peck upon his cheek.  “Jennifer and Anthony will board the evening train in Truro on Friday and arrive at Paddington Saturday at 7 a.m.  I will be in Brussels until Sunday. I am sorry I won’t be with you to pick them up.” 

Greg saw Jenny first.  Her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, neon pink hoodie visually shouting her presence. Knapsack on her back, she dragged a large wheeled suitcase behind her.  Greg waved. Jenny smiled and waved, paused by the train door.  Other passengers disembarked.  She looked patiently beyond them.  A lanky black haired person, shaggy fringe covering most of their face, scrawny body hidden beneath an oversized black hoodie.

“Dad!”  Once Tony was on the platform, Jenny rushed to their father.  Her sweatshirt and the tee beneath were cropped, and her yogas were rolled down, so a bit of her midriff was exposed.  Huge silver hoops swung in her ears.  

After he squeezed her, he held his daughter at arms’ length.  Her brown eyes, so like his own, were the same eyes of the little girl who he taught to ride a bike when she was seven.  This young lady, nearly his height, was no longer his baby girl, but a young lady with the bloom of adulthood upon her.  Living apart from them was not preparing him well for these teen years.  

“The train was so cool.  Where’s Mycroft?  I want to tell him it was  _ the best _ way  _ ever _ to get to London. Seriously!”

“I’m glad it worked out.  Mycroft’s in Brussels until tomorrow.”

Jenny looked slightly crestfallen. “Will he be home this week?”

“Oh yes, he’s put in for time off.  So he’ll only be working from home, unless an emergency comes up.”

“Not much of a holiday.”

Greg kissed her forehead.  “It’s good to see you, poppet.”

“Dad,” the deep voice from the dark haired person in the oversized black clothing took him by surprise. 

Jenny whispered “His voice changed since you last saw us.  He sounds like you now. Bit weird.”

“Shut up.”

“Oi, be nice to your sister.”  Greg clasped Tony to his chest in a bear hug.  Tony squirmed a bit. “How’s your ear?”

Tony cupped a hand over his ear.  “S’alright.”

“It got a bit gross, but I took care of it.”  Jenny pulled his hand away gently.  “It’s miles better. Just tender. Dad, is it okay if I call Aine to see if she wants to hang out tonight? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Oi, you just got here, and I haven’t seen  _ you _ in ages.” Greg took her wheeled bag.  “And you’re only here for a week.  How about we spend some time together as a family before Mycroft comes home.”

Jenny frowned, but acquiesced to her father’s suggestion. “Can I see if she wants to hang out later this week?”

Greg sighed and nodded. “What about you, Tony?  Looking to meet up with any old friends this week?”

“Nah,” his voice rumbled from beneath the black fringe.  “They’d not recognize me anyway. I got friends back home.”

They loaded their bags into the black car waiting for them at the curb. 

“Dad, this isn’t your car.” Jenny eyed the driver suspiciously. 

“Um, yeah. I mean, it’s no. It’s not.  But it is. Mycroft thought we’d want to chat on the drive home. He didn’t want me distracted by driving. So …”

“This is his driver?  His car?” Jenny poked her head into the open door.  “This is lush! I love that your boyfriend is a rich government spy.”  She slid into the leather seat.

“He’s not a spy,” Greg sighed, meeting the curious gaze of the driver. 

“Dad, can we get a curry tonight?” 

“I’ve got ingredients in.  Did some shopping. Thought I’d make a curry and some rice.”

Tony flipped his fringe out of his face.  His large brown eyes bulged.  “When did you learn to cook?”

“I wanted to impress Mycroft so I took a course.”

Tony let his hair fall across his face. 

“Get in, you twit.  Let’s go. I want to see this house!” Jenny reached for her brother and pulled him into the car.

***

John placed the tea tray down and shot his professional smile at them. 

“We don’t normally give clients tea, but you’re family.” He smiled at Mychelle.  “Sorry we didn’t get to talk much at the wedding.”

Mychelle nodded slightly. “Well, you and Uncle Sherlock were a bit busy that day.  Weddings aren’t really the right time to meet random extended family members.” 

Evan leaned back in his chair and nervously twirled his dark curls.  “Where is Mister Holmes?” 

“Sherlock is out on a case at the moment. He forwarded Mychelle’s text to me. We  _ are _ partners.  We  _ do _ work together.” The firm tone and steady blue gaze had the intended effect upon the nervous social worker.  Evan ceased his fidgeting and reached for a cup of tea.

“Your daughter isn’t home, is she?” Mychelle looked at the array of building blocks and wood puzzle of the periodic table.  

“Out for the day with her aunt.” He sipped his tea and set it down. “Tell me about Jack and Aine.”

***

“John!  John!” Sherlock shouted as he took the stairs two at a time.

“Ah, there’s your uncle now.” John stayed in his chair as he looked towards the door.

“John, I…” He stopped short, not recognizing Evan. Mychelle stood up. Sherlock walked forward and shook her hand. “Good to see you, Mychelle.”

“Sherlock,” she nodded and sat down again.

“Not much of a family reunion,” Evan muttered. 

“Sex trafficking!” Sherlock exploded.  “On the dark web.  I was with Caleb and we overheard some homeless girls discussing taking precautions because some of their friends have been kidnapped.  There are rumors of pretty boys, trans kids and young models being sold online in a sex trafficking scheme.” Long pale fingers gesticulated wildly as he spoke hurriedly.

“And you think this is how Sophie disappeared?”

Sherlock paced the room. “Yes. She occasionally turns tricks for a bit of cash. She did some… questionable modeling from time to time. And she’s the tall, willowy one.” He gestured in the air as if conjuring her beside him.  “Caleb assures me people find her attractive. Even with the blue hair.”

“You said they have been kidnapping trans kids? Do you think this is how Jack disappeared?” 

Sherlock pointed towards Evan. “Not as dim as you first appeared. YES.  I think the disappearances of Sophie and your two are connected with this.”

“Jack used to. I thought he was done with it.” Mychelle rubbed her temples.  

“He may not have gone willingly, Mychelle.” Sherlock dropped to his haunches in front of her. He took her hands in his. “I need to get into the deep web.  I’ll need a few days. I’ll get him back.”

“Aine wasn’t into that sort of thing.” Evan interjected. 

Sherlock studied him. “Tell me about Aine.”

Evan straightened up under the scrutinizing gaze. “Erm… well, she’s cis gender, straight, not into drugs. She never turned tricks.  She’s recently homeless.  Her mum passed away and she lived with the mum’s boyfriend. He wasn’t very nice. So we got her into youth housing.”

“She wanted to get into modeling,” Mychelle added.  “She had some headshots done recently.”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly.  “Did Aine know Jack?” 

Evan shook his head.  Mychelle confirmed.

“No. Different backgrounds. Different youth homes.”

“What do these kids look like?  Are they attractive?” John spoke up.

“Um, yeah.” Mychelle pulled out her mobile. 

John and Sherlock looked at photos of a sixteen year old girl with short black hair, green eyes, and a pixie face.  

“She’s adorable,” John said.

“Text me those,” Sherlock instructed.

“This is Jack,” Mychelle brought up another photo.

A slender androgynous figure in blue jeans, Doc Martins and a white tee leaned against a brick wall. They could just make out the lines of the binding across his chest. His hair was short and styled. A cigarette was perched on his lip. 

“He loved that photo. A friend took it for him and he sent it to me.  Asked me to print it for his file to keep track of his transition.”

John nodded. “He’s also very attractive.”

“How recent is this?” Sherlock enlarged the image on the phone screen.

“About two weeks.”

“Text me that as well. And if you have a close up of his face.”

Mychelle began forwarding the images. Sherlock and John’s phones both began to ping.

“I’m not sure how long this will take, but we’ll find them, Mychelle.”  John gave a reassuring half smile.

Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop and walked to the kitchen without a word. The three watched him disappear behind the sliding green glass doors.

“He’s not much for social niceties. I can promise you, he’s on the case.” John shook their hands warmly. “I’ll let you know the moment we have news.”

“Thanks, John.”

“What about Detective Khan?” Evan asked as he shook John’s hand. “We gave her the photos as well.”

“Sherlock works better without police involvement. We’ll work the case from our own angle.”

“Don’t worry, Evan.” Mychelle gently pushed him towards the door. “My uncle will find them.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of domestic, parent Mystrade.
> 
> Mycroft has a thing for Idris Elba. (Who can blame him??)

**Sunday Morning**

Greg sat at the kitchen table and  scrolled through photos on his mobile. Mycroft leaned over his shoulder to kiss his ear.  

“Are you working, Detective Inspector?”

“Ugh. Busted.” He turned his face into his partner’s kiss.  “Khan sent these.  That missing persons case Mychelle opened. Young trans male and an orphaned teen girl. I asked her to keep me posted.”

“Has Detective Khan found anything?”

“No. Nothing. Just these photos she got from Mychelle and her work colleague, Evan.”

“That young man is quite fetching.” Mycroft expanded the photo of Jack in white tee and blue jeans. “Reminds me a bit of myself.”

“Oh? Are there photos of sexy young Mycroft around?”

“Of course. My mother has entire photo albums. Next time we visit I am sure she will happily show them off to you.”

“Excellent.  Something for me to do at Christmas.”

Jenny shuffled into the kitchen. “Morning.”

“Morning, kiddo.”

“Glad you’re home. Did you just get in?” She drowsily scratched her scalp.

“Yes, I did. Good morning, Jennifer.” Mycroft straightened up. “How did you find your accommodations?”

“Um…” She yawned. “Yeah, good. Bed’s soft. Is there coffee?”

“Bit young for coffee, aren’t you?” Greg pushed a carton of orange juice across the table. 

“I’m the daughter of a man who used to proudly claim he had coffee instead of blood in his veins.”

Greg rolled his eyes.  With a smirk, Mycroft pulled a bag of beans and a grinder from a cabinet.  He placed a French press beside them.  “Kettle is there,” he pointed. 

“Ta, Myc.” Jenny busied herself.

Greg raised an eyebrow and watched his partner’s reaction to the nickname. Mycroft did not react.  Instead he got himself a yoghurt, and the milk bottle for Jennifer out of the refrigerator. Perhaps this week would go well after all.

***

**Sunday Evening**

“Why do you call everyone by their full name except for my dad?”  Jenny flopped onto the couch next to Mycroft.

“My father’s name is Gregory.”

“Ugh, bit awkward that. I won’t date boys called Greg or Tony. Don’t want to be calling out your dad’s name in a fit of passion.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “That is why your father is the only exception.”

Jenny giggled.  “I suspect my dad is the only exception for you in a lot of ways.”

Mycroft straightened his shoulders and looked down his nose at the bubbly teen next to him.  “I don’t know that I am comfortable talking about my orientation with you…”

“Um,” she cut him off quickly. “Not that. Gross.  I don’t want to talk about your sex life with or without my dad, thanks.”  Jenny wrinkled her face in disgust.  “I mean that you’re so posh and proper.  You’re all buttoned up,” she pointed towards his suit.  “And dad’s well…” she looked thoughtful.  “Dad is a regular bloke.  He’s hardened cos he’s a copper, and he’s rough cos he’s a city boy.  Ya know?”

Mycroft smiled. “Indeed I do.”

“I was worried about him after mum left him.  I know he was dating.  It can’t be easy for a cop with the weird hours and all.  Mum was always either suspicious cos he worked so much, or angry cos he had to cancel plans so much.”  She chewed her bottom lip for several moments.  “You won’t leave my dad cos he works weird hours, will you?”

She looked at him with her father’s dark brown eyes.  

Mycroft swallowed hard.  “I promise that if our relationship ever ends, it will not be because of his career.  I have a position in government that often requires me to travel abroad and be at the office at odd times.”

“Have you met the Queen?”  her face brightened.

“Yes.  I am honoured to know her Majesty.”

Jenny giggled.  “You never stop with the haughtiness, do you?  What’s she like?  Is she really nice like an old gran, or is she a total bitch?”

“Her Majesty is as Her Majesty wishes to be seen.  She is a lady.”

Greg walked in, bowl of popcorn under one arm, DVD clutched in his free hand. “You two look as thick as thieves.”

“Frisk him, not me.  He looks suspicious.”  Jenny winked at Mycroft. 

“Don’t be gross, Jenny.”  Tony rolled his eyes as he set a tray of drinks on the coffee table.  

“Settle down,” Greg said softly, looking at both of his children.

Jenny reached forward for her bottled water and handed Mycroft his scotch.  He gave her a slight smile in thanks.  She grinned broadly and tapped her bottle against his glass.  “Cheers.”   

“What’s the film?” 

“Avengers.” Tony flopped into a soft chair.

“Again? Seriously, you need to branch out.”

“Shut it, cow.”

“Wanker.”

“I’ve not seen it yet.” Mycroft intervened. “Is this one where Idris Elba plays Heimdall?”

Tony tipped his head to the side to peer at Mycroft from under his fringe. “Yeah.”

Greg sat on the other side of his daughter and chuckled.  “Mycroft loves Idris in Luther.  I suspect that’s what he thinks my work day is like.”

“Sexy, brooding detectives solving crime and hanging out with insane young women?” Jenny squinted at Mycroft.  “I’ve met some of dad’s work mates.  None are half as good looking as the ones on telly.”

“Oi!” Greg spluttered.

“Let’s settle down and watch the film, shall we?” Mycroft intervened diplomatically.

They watched the film in silence.  The only noises were from each of them reaching for more snacks and the crunch of popcorn and crisps.  Greg draped his arm over the back of the sofa and stretched his fingers towards Mycroft.  He minutely elongated his shoulder and muscles. He didn’t want Jenny to know what he was literally doing behind her back, but he wanted to touch Mycroft. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft noted the movement.  He yawned, arched his back, and tipped his head slightly.  Greg’s index finger traced the curve of Mycroft’s ear. Never averting their eyes from the screen, they both grinned.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's important to let teens be themselves. And it's important to remember what we were like when we were their ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First World War baby names are a thing. Or they used to be. Children were named after battles where family fought and died. It's not as popular now. BBC recently did a story on battle baby names.

**Monday Morning**

“You don’t need to put on eyeliner to go to the zoo!” Greg shouted.

“Just leave me alone. I’ll be ready when I’m ready.” The muffled shout came back from the locked bedroom.

“Anthony Soissons Lestrade!” Greg’s voice bellowed.

“I didn’t know your family had battle baby names.” Mycroft strolled silently up the carpeted hall.

“What?” Greg turned, face red with rage. 

Mycroft leaned casually against the wall, careful to avoid the large portrait of Thatcher. “Your son’s middle name is from a Great War battle.”

“Er…” Greg rubbed a hand over the top of his hair, mussing it up.  “Yeah. My grandfather’s brother died in that battle.”

“Interesting.  Must have been an older brother.”

Greg nodded.

“You don’t see too many children or young people nowadays with battle baby names.  They’ve sort of died out. Families don’t pass on traditions the way they used to. Although it’s usually the girls that get the names, not the boys.”

Greg’s blood pressure returned to normal.  His face paled to its natural shade. “Jenny’s middle name is Poppy.  Lucy and I had family that fought in both wars.”

Mycroft ran his thumb and index finger along the collar of his partner’s shirt.  He traced the line of buttons to his belt buckle. 

“Why don’t you put the kettle on. Jennifer finished the last of the coffee, and I know you’ll want a second cup.”  Mycroft’s lips curled into a seductive smirk. 

“But Tony’s gonna make us late for the…”

Mycroft silenced him with a kiss. He pulled back slowly, eyes fixed on Greg’s. “Kettle.”

Once the sound of Greg’s footsteps was no longer audible Mycroft knocked on the door.

“Anthony?”

“Ugh. I’m getting ready. Did dad send you to harass me?”

“No one sends me anywhere, Anthony. May I come in?”

Several seconds ticked by in silence.

“This is my home, and I have keys to every door.  There is also a network of secret passages.  I can get into that room three other ways besides this door. But I’d like it if you’d just let me in so we can speak.” His voice was calm.

The lock clicked.  Tony opened the door enough to show his face. “Are you serious?”

“I am not prone to exaggeration.”

“Will you show me?”

“Perhaps. Not today, though.  I haven’t even told your father yet.  I suppose I should confide in him before you.”

Tony opened the door.  He flopped down on the unmade bed. Mycroft closed the door quietly. 

“I heard your father giving you grief over your make up this morning. And I heard the comment he made yesterday about your nail polish.”

“Are you going to give me a speech about it as well?”

Mycroft smoothed the rumpled sheet and sat beside the teen.  He pulled a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“May I ask why you do it?” His voice was soft.

“I dunno. Cos I like it.” Tony sat up.

Mycroft nodded.  

“When mum left dad and we moved all the way to Cornwall, I felt so different. Like, no one in the world would understand what I was going through. Plus moving to a new place sucks. I lost all my friends in London. Then this kid, who used to be called Scott, was nice to me. He was wearing this sort of corset thing and black jeans. He had earrings and makeup on, and his hair was all sort of rainbow underneath, know what I mean?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Scott was cool. He didn’t care what the other kids said. He played football and was pretty good. And he got good grades. Not top of the class nerd or anything. Just good at school. I just started dressing like him.”

Mycroft fiddled with the envelope. 

“Now Scott’s called Janice and she still dresses the same, only she wears more skirts now.”

Mycroft slid a photo out of the envelope and handed it to Tony.

“Woah,” he studied the photo carefully. “Blimey. Is that… is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Fishnets?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Is that jacket real leather?”

“It was.”

“And the skirt?”

Mycroft sighed. He leaned over to look at the old picture. “Yes.  This was taken backstage at a Siouxsie and the Banshees show..”

“You’re kidding.” Tony half whispered.

“I was young and started university early. I didn’t fit in with the older students. I was trying to be cool.”

“You look right peng.”

“I was married a year later.”

“What?”

“My mother arranged a marriage to my cousin Portia. She found herself pregnant by a rather unsavory older man.”

“Ugh, that’s proper incest that.”

“Well, it’s legal. And we never consummated the marriage. It was done to protect family honour and to keep the child safe.”

“Did you get married looking like this?”

“Oh no. I took my duty very seriously.  I wore a kilt. No eyeliner. But I did have a little mascara on.” He winked at Tony.

Tony reached for the envelope.  Inside he found ten more photos of Mycroft at sixteen and seventeen years old, hair long and black, earrings in both ears, chains of safety pins, leather, even one where he was wearing heels.

“Ah. That was at an Echo and the Bunnymen show.  A lad I fancied had a thing for heels.  My feet were throbbing at the end of the night.”

“You turned out alright.”

Mycroft looked at him quizzically.  “Yes.  Is that a concern about you, Anthony?”

He nodded.  “Mums worried I’ll end up being weird forever and won’t be able to get a proper career. She is always on me about looking normal or I’ll never get anywhere in life.”

Mycroft nodded. “I remember those speeches. Dreadfully dull from uninformed people.”

Tony smiled. “You’re alright.”

“As are you, Anthony.  Now,” Mycroft stood.  “I should take those photographs back. They belong to my mother. And I haven’t shown your father yet. Our secret for now, okay?”

Tony agreed.

“Hurry down for breakfast.  The zoo opens at ten. But I arranged for us to get in at nine to see the Attenborough Komodo Dragon House.”

“Seriously?” Tony bounced off the bed.

“Always, Anthony. Hurry along.”

Greg met him at the bottom of the stairs. Mycroft kissed his cheek. “Did you make more coffee?”

“Yeah. What was all that about?”

“Nothing.” He looked down his nose and tried not to smirk.

“Don’t get that haughty look with me, Mycroft Holmes. What happened with you and Tony?”

“He’ll be along shortly.  We just had a little heart to heart. Come,” he slid his arm around Greg’s waist. “I believe Jennifer said she was going to make scones for breakfast.”

“You never eat scones.”

“I can make an exception today.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is called out of the country for work. But before he leaves he sings a 2am duet with Jenny Lestrade.

**Monday Night**

_ I need everything you have on Tor. - SWH _

_ Shortened from the Norse God of Thunder, Thor. Not used as a name until the 18th century. - MH _

_ Is that humour? - SWH _

_ No, brother mine. It’s fact. - MH _

_ Thank you, Google.  Now can you please send me everything you have on sex trafficking on Tor? - SWH _

_ It is contagious.  Now you are attempting humour. - MH _

_ Mycroft, whatever you’re doing, bloody well stop it. Your brother just woke up our daughter and Mrs. Hudson with a profanity littered tirade that nearly had the bloody police service here for disturbing the peace! GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS. - JWH _

_ Emailing what I have shortly. - MH _

_ Thank you. - JWH _

_ Prat - SWH _

***

The house was finally silent.  Greg lay in the middle of the four poster bed, arms crossed behind his head.  He stretched his toes beneath the sheets, luxuriating in the satiny texture of the bedding.  He could hear the faucet in the en suite as Mycroft brushed his teeth.  The ping of his tooth brush being placed back in the cup, the squeak of the chrome towel holder as Mycroft dried his face and hung the towel again; the soft pad of his bare feet on the tile floor, the click of the door.

“Hello handsome,” Greg smiled as Mycroft rounded the bed to his side.

“Why do you insist on lying in the middle of our bed?”

“To make sure I get to hold you the moment you lay down.”

Mycroft tried to stifle his grin, as he pulled back the sheets and slid in next to his partner.  He lay his head against Greg’s shoulder, as the tanned arms wrapped around him. Greg stroked his back, tracing patterns on the blue pyjama shirt.

“Thank you for today,” Greg pressed his lips to the receding hairline. “The kids had a great time. The Dragon House was fantastic.”

“Lucy mentioned Jennifer’s interest in komodo dragons. I was at school with the ZSL director. Our special visit did come at a price.”

“Oh?” Greg slowed his hand.

“We are to have dinner with her and her husband.”

“That’s not so bad.”

Mycroft grunted and rolled onto his back. “You haven’t met them yet. It will be tedious, but the reaction on Jennifer and Anthony’s faces this morning will make it worthwhile.” 

Greg felt his body grow warm. His heart filled his chest. 

“Are you feeling well, Greg?” Mycroft sat up.

Greg blinked back a tear.  “Yeah,” he smiled. “Yeah. Perfect.” He leaned closer and kissed Mycroft. “Completely perfect.” 

***

The light on the phone screen cast its rectangular shape upon the ceiling.  The vibration shook the bedside table. Mycroft lifted his face from Greg’s chest where he left behind a damp spot of drool.  He wiped his chin as he carefully reached for his phone.

“What part of the world needs saving at 2 a.m.?” Greg asked groggily.

Mycroft unlocked his phone.  He frowned as he read emails and text messages. 

“I’m afraid I have to leave.”

“When?”

Mycroft sat up, rubbed the sleep from his face, “Immediately.”

“What the hell, Mycroft?” Greg sat up.  “Terrorists? Do I need to get to the Yard?” 

“No. Not terrorists this time. I need to head to Eastern Europe. My time in Belgium was well spent.  I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” He dressed quickly. He reached for the previously packed rolling case and suit bag.  There were always packed bags in their bedroom and in his office at the club in the event he had to leave immediately.

Mycroft slipped on his shoes as he buttoned his vest. “Please tell the children I am sorry about this.  Anthony and I were looking forward to the poisonous plant garden tour.” He stood, bag in either hand, impeccably dressed and looking dejected.

Greg extricated himself from the sheets. He pressed himself into Mycroft’s personal space.  

“I seem to have a patch of drool on my shirt.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not. I miss this when we are apart.” Greg leaned up and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s stubbled cheek. “Be careful.”

“As always,” Mycroft smiled. 

Greg sleepily stumbled towards the en suite in the semi darkness.  Mycroft closed their door softly behind him.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mycroft heard singing.  It was soft, acapella and feminine. He pressed an ear to the lounge door.  Lady Gaga.

Mycroft opened the door to find Jenny, earbuds in, dancing around the room, softly singing along to what she was listening to.  

“Call all you want, but there’s no one home, and you’re not gonna reach Mycroft!” She bumped into a wing chair.

“I believe the lyric is ‘my telephone’. I would remember if my name was in that song.”

“You know this song?” She took the earbuds out and paused the song.

“I happen to be a fan of Lady Gaga.  I had the distinct pleasure of watching one of her London shows from backstage.  Lovely young woman.”

“Holy crap, you _ met _ her? Wait, why are you dressed? Are you leaving?” She pointed at his luggage.

“Yes. To your first and third questions.  I have met her, and I am leaving.”

“But why? You and dad didn’t have a row, did you?”

Mycroft shook his head gently. “All is well between myself and your father.  I have been called out of the country for work, I’m afraid.  Have to leave immediately.  My driver will be here shortly.”

Jenny flopped down in the chair. “But we had plans this week! What if you don’t get back before we have to go home?”

“Then we’ll do all the things we planned when you return for summer hols.”

“Really?” she perked up. “I’ll miss you now. But if we can come back, that’d be fantastic.”

Mycroft placed his bags on the floor. “You know, when my daughter was about your age she was very busy with school. I saw her when I could. But it was never enough. I never got to share with her my love of music.”

Jenny raised her eyebrows.

“Can I be your Beyonce?” Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets.

She squinted her brown eyes at him. “Do you know the words?”

***

After having a pee and climbing back into bed, Greg realized he was a bit peckish.  He headed to the kitchen, but stopped halfway down the stairs. He could not believe his ears. Jenny was awake after 2 a.m. Mycroft had not left yet. And they were singing.

The lounge door was open.  He stood in the hall, jaw slack, eyes wide. Mycroft had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.  He was wielding the disconnected handset of the antique phone as a microphone.  Jenny, in her pyjama pants and tee shirt, was singing into an empty glass. Jenny’s phone lay on the coffee table playing ‘Telephone’.

Mycroft spun, flipped an imaginary mane of hair and began to rap. “Boy, the way you blowin’ up my phone won’t make me leave no faster. Put my coat on faster, leave my girls no faster.”

Jenny danced.  She nodded and waved her arms. “You tell him, Bey!”

Greg could not control himself.  He snorted out a laugh that stopped the little show.

“Dad!” Jenny grabbed her phone to stop the song.”

“Jenny.” He nodded, arms across his chest as he leaned into the door jamb.

“Greg.” Mycroft hid the handset behind his back.

“Mycroft,” he nodded towards his partner.

A phone buzzed.  Jenny looked down at hers and shook her head.  Mycroft crossed the room to his discarded jacket, handing the phone handset to Jenny behind his back as he passed her.  She hid it behind her back before cautiously dropping it to the cushioned chair behind her. Mycroft retrieved his phone. “Ah. My driver has arrived.” 

He slipped his jacket on, and kept his eyes averted from Greg’s.  “Jennifer, thank you for our enlightening conversation. If I don’t see you when I return, I shall text you.”

“Um, yes. Thank you as well, Myc. Excellent conversation. I’ll… um… look forward to your text.”

They nodded awkwardly.

Greg, brown eyes full of laughter, grabbed his partner’s sleeve as he tried to walk past without eye contact. “Hey,” his voice was soft. “No more grief about my liking  _ Wham! _ Queen Bey.”

Mycroft blushed from pink to magenta. “I…”

Greg grinned and stopped Mycroft’s protestations with a kiss. “Go. Save the world. Come home to me, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled.  “Yeah.”


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is working on the case. Jenny goes to meet an old friend.

**Tuesday**

“What makes you so sure Sophie was taken by this sex trafficking ring?” John placed a mug of tea next to Sherlock’s laptop.

“She’s done some modeling and she’s turned tricks before.  And Caleb assures me she is attractive.” Sherlock didn’t take his eyes from the screen.

“Modeling is the connection between Sophie and Aine.  But Mychelle didn’t say Jack was into modeling. He has the figure for it, though.”

Sherlock “hmmm’ed” in agreement.

“Prostitution is the connection between Sophie and Jack.  And drugs. Do you think it’s mob related?”

Sherlock made a non-committal grunt.

“Super skinny is still the widely accepted norm for models. And if you’re strung out on heroine, you’re not likely to eat much,” he looked at the back of his husband’s slouched figure at the computer, grateful for the extra twelve pounds he put on since they met. “And if you’re willing to have sex for money, there isn’t a huge leap to taking a bit of kit off for some photos.” John finished his own mug of tea and swirled the dregs thoughtfully. “How far into Tor are you?”

“Not far enough.”

John placed a kiss upon the curly head of his husband. “I’m going to get Olivia from Molly’s. I’ll pick up dinner on the way home. Greek okay?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed. “Dolma and moussaka.”

John smiled.  That was Sherlock’s usual order. “Of course.”

***

“The colour looks even,” Anthea gave a critical eye to her boss as he stood before her in nothing but a Speedo.

“What about the face?” The MI-6 agent looked at Mycroft’s skin like he was inanimate. “It’s not right. Not Italian enough.”

Anthea sighed. “He’s well versed in makeup. And I got these,” she opened a glasses case. “Mirrored lenses. Recording on the right. Video link on the left. Wifi and data enabled.”

The agent nodded.  “Google glass has no idea how helpful they have been.”

“This room isn’t as warm as the spray tan booth. May I dress now?” Mycroft droned in a bored tone.

The agent nodded awkwardly and scurried out. Anthea handed him the case with the glasses.  “Looking fit, by the way, sir.” 

***

**Wednesday Evening**

“I’ve been texting Aine since we got here. She hasn’t replied. She said we’d hang out when I was in town.”

“Maybe she went away for hols,” Tony kept his eyes on the game he played on his phone.

“She wouldn’t do that without telling me.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Cos your best friend from before we moved away wouldn’t do that to you?”

Jenny smacked his arm.  “Yeah, ya prat. We’ve kept in touch. Not like you, ditching all your London friends once we moved.” 

“Whatevs.” 

Jenny’s phone buzzed.  

_ Oi, cow! Heard you were in town. - Ty _

_ Cheeky twat. Are we hanging with Aine? - Jen _

_ She went missing the other week. After her mum died she went into housing on her own. Then she disappeared. - Ty _

_ What? When can we meet? - Jen _

_ Top Teas. Woolwich Road. Bout an hour? - Ty _

_ Yeah. - Jen _

_ Laters - Ty _

“I’m going out for a bit.”

“Dad said not to.”

“Piss off. And don’t tell him where I’ve gone.”

“I don’t know where you’re off to, you stroppy cow. So how can I tell him?”

“Fair point. Just cover for me. I’ll be back late.”

***

Tyrene stamped her feet in boredom on the pavement outside the cafe.  Her long black braids were twisted up into a large bun at the top of her head.  The bun wobbled as she kicked and bounced in place. The late May night was cool. She kept her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and her eyes on every person on the street.  

“You look right suspicious,” Jenny said as she walked quickly towards her friend.

The black girl hugged her childhood friend and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You lost weight, bish.”

“I took up football. Can’t just run around after boys and lizards. We going inside?” 

“Nah, I’m skint.  Besides, I only wanted you here to tell you about Aine.”

“Yeah, whatcha mean she went missing? I thought she was doing alright.”

“Yeah. She was. Then she got some modeling job offer.  Said it was too good to pass up. I told her to run it by the social workers cos she’s got no mum, ya know? But she didn’t want to get them involved.  Said she had to do this on her own. But she did tell me she was comin’ ‘ere to meet the agent.”

“Fuck.” Jenny whistled.

“No shit.  I’ve been back ‘ere every day lookin’ for her. Seein’ if maybe she’ll show up or I’ll ‘ear somefin, ya know? Then that model girl got kidnapped in Italy. I got right scared.  Not sure who to tell.”

Tears raced down her tawny cheeks. 

Jenny wrapped her arms around her friend. “Alright. Let’s grab a cuppa and take a walk. It’s on me. We’ll see if there is anything suspicious.”

“What if there is?” Her dark eyes went wide with fear.

“I’ll call my dad. He’s a D.I.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenny and Tyrene get more than they bargained for.

With steaming paper cups, and waxed bags full of biscuits, the girls walked away from the cafe and the new construction.  

“This place has really changed.”

“Yeah, new development. Bringing money back into the neighborhood.  Gentrifying, more like. It’s still a bit shady in some areas.” Ty pointed with her tea.  “That old hotel there is supposed to be knocked down for a new one. Dad says the owners have been stalling the sale. No idea why. It’s a right eyesore.” 

The two stopped on the corner. Behind them were shiny new shops, exercise studios, towers of middle class flats, car dealerships and restaurants.  In front of them was an old hotel, windows partially boarded up. It was surrounded by solid construction fence with Keep Out and Danger signs.  A sedan with dark windows pulled up.  Two large men in jeans and dark hoodies emerged.  They looked up and down the street. One spotted the girls as they stood just outside the circle of illumination from the street light. He pointed them out to his friend.  The second man shook his head, grabbed his arm, and they disappeared through a gap in the fence.

“Not shady at all.” Jenny said, rolling her eyes.

“Jen, I’m scared.  Call your dad.”

“Because two punks saw us standing here? They probably went in there to get high or something.  Come on, let’s check it out.”

“You don’t get high!” Tyrene hissed.

“No, I don’t. But if we witness some mischief, it’ll be easier for my dad to arrest the fools.  It’ll be fine.”

As they walked towards the gap in the fence, the gate swung open.  The girls stopped short, hearts pounding.  A tanned, dark haired man in a tight fitting pair of jeans and cashmere jumper stepped onto the pavement.  He lit a hand rolled cigarette. He lazily blew the smoke into the breeze, away from the girls. 

“Nice night for it,” he said in a friendly manner.

“Yeah,” Ty squeaked.

“Mmm,” Jenny nodded.  She casually sipped her tea.

He stood in the circle of light from the street lamp.  His eyes were darker than her dad’s, a brown so dark they were almost black.  His hair was short and neat. Clean shaven, skin evenly brown.  Jenny couldn’t tell if he was Italian or Middle Eastern.  He had old fashioned movie star good looks with hooded dark eyes and a flash of white teeth when he smiled. Jeans hugged his long wiry legs. A white collared shirt peeked out from the neck of his grey jumper.  He looked like a model. Jenny tried to remember each detail as she looked him up and down.

“See something you like, luv?” He leaned his back against the fence, one knee bent, jack booted foot pressed into the ratty wood for balance.

“Maybe,” she replied casually.

Tyrene let out a tiny squeak. He chuckled and took a drag off his cig.

“You look like a bloke in an advert I saw in Vogue.” She sipped her tea again, to match his casual air.

“Maybe I am.” He flicked ash to the pavement.

“Then whatcha doin’ hanging in a place like this?” Ty blurted.

“Models aren’t saints, pretty one.” He purred.  

Tyrene blushed.  As scared as she was, she was flattered that such a good looking guy called her pretty.

Jenny shifted her weight to one leg, hip out. “So what do devilish models do in run down old hotels?”

He let out a clear laugh that rang out merrily in the night. “You are a curious beauty. Touch of the devil in you, too, I suspect.” He flicked his cig into the street.

“Suspect you might be right.” She moved her head so her long brown ponytail draped over one shoulder.

The stranger stepped forward, slender nicotine scented fingers played with Jenny’s hair. “You girls wanna party?”

Ty reached out for Jenny’s hand.  Jen gave her the empty tea cup instead. 

“Where?” She looked up at him coquettishly.

“In there,” he nodded slightly to the hotel.

“You expect us to believe there’s a party in there?” Tyrene blurted.

“Ever see fashion shoots with pretty people in dilapidated surroundings? Beautiful girls with long legs and long hair,” he ran his fingers through Jenny’s ponytail, “wearing the latest Hilfiger line, leaning against a sexy guy in tight jeans without a shirt?” 

“Yeah,” Ty gulped.

“That’s why we’re here, luv.” He shifted his gaze from Jenny to Ty.  “Vogue shoot. We don’t always get to hang on pretty locations.”

“Seriously? You’re shooting a Vogue spread in there?” Jenny’s interest was piqued. 

“Cross my heart, cutie.” He winked.

“I say we party,” Jenny smiled flirtatiously.  “I’m going to text our friends to tell we aren’t going to make it over.”

“Our friends?” Tyrene, terrified and intrigued, nearly blew their cover.

“She’d lose her braids if they were extensions,” she mumbled to the stranger. “Yeah, I’m texting Tony and Greg to tell them we found a better party.”

Ty cocked her head. “Yeah. Those two.”

The stranger leaned towards Tyrene.  “Not as much fun as me, huh?” He whispered, far too close to her ear. His nose brushed against the braids.  Shivers ran up and down her spine. 

“Not as cute,” she muttered. 

Jenny rolled her eyes as she sent off a text.

_ Track me. I may have found Aine. - Jenny _

“Ready?” she pocketed her phone. The stranger offered his arm. She slipped her hand through. He offered his other arm to Ty.

“I’m Jenny, by the way. And that’s Tyrene.”

“Nice to meet you both. I’m Fabio.”

“Seriously?” Jenny tried not to laugh it out.

“Seriously. My mum was a fan.”

The gate creaked on its hinges. Fabio bowed them in before him.

***

“Where did your sister go?” Greg shouted.

“I don’t know, dad. She didn’t tell me.”

“Damn it, Tony! When did she leave?”

“Last night. Kinda late. She told me not to tell you where she went.”

“So she did tell you where she went?”

“Nah. Didn’t you hear me the first time? She didn’t tell me where she was going.  All I know is she was looking for Aine and Tyrene.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Greg threw up his arms.  “Where do they live?”

Tony shrugged. “Aine’s mum died and she went into youth housing. Ty’s dad works for the mayor’s office. Urban development or something.”

“I don’t know these kids. What’s the last name?”

“Burroughs.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“Dad, just settle down and check your phone. She texted us last night.”

Lestrade opened the text app.

“Track her?”

“You are a cop, right?” Tony shouted. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He may not like doing field work, but sometimes Mycroft is called in to do some.

**Thursday**

A slender dark gentleman took a drag off a cigarette and lazily blew smoke rings in the already hazy room. His thick head of blue-black hair was perfectly coiffed.  A stark white polo shirt brought out the golds and pinks in his deep tan. His eyes were shielded behind blue mirrored lenses set in titanium frames. The beige jacket that matched his trousers was carelessly draped over a slightly rat-eaten chair. The czar-era house, once elegant, had fallen into disrepair. The late spring sun filtered through dirty windows and moldy curtains. Some furniture was newer, most was not. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” The pendulous figure of Serik Ospenov appeared from behind a curtain. He shuffled to his desk, alternately dragging and pushing his bulk forward. 

“I was getting worried you were backing out of our deal.” The dark haired gentleman spoke English with a Sicilian accent.

Ospenov groaned as he lowered himself into his leather chair. “No, my Italian friend.  Just a little side business I had to check on.”

One carefully plucked brow raised. He looked haughtily down his nose towards the Kazakhstani mobster. “Side business?”

“Yes. I do a little trade in white boys and girls. And those in between, you know?  They are exotic in the Middle East, yes?”

“Infatti.” He extinguished his cigarette in the full glass ashtray on Ospenov’s desk. “We may have more in common than I thought. I presume you just received a new shipment of… goods?”

“Oh yes. From England and Norway. Lovely boys.”

“Incantevole,” he leaned forward, bare elbows on the nicotine stained desk blotter. “Will you show me?”

“Oh, my friend,” the rotund Kazakh man spread his arms.  “We have a deal on the weapons?”

“Of course. Once your funds are deposited into our Swiss account, we will deliver the guns via airdrop as planned.  The vehicles are on board our ship in the Caspian Sea.  One text from me and the captain will dock and unload.”

“Excellent!” he chuckled. With a few taps and swipes on his mobile the bank transfer began. “It will take about seventeen minutes for the funds to move. Shall I take you to see my new shipment while we wait for you to get your deposit confirmation?”

The slender man in white and beige patted his carefully groomed hair as he waited for the large man to push himself to standing.  

A few rooms down the hall from Ospenov’s office, in his dilapidated seventeenth century manse, two burly men with handguns on their belts and machine guns strapped across their chests guarded a door. They moved aside for their employer.

“You’ll like these, I think.” He winked one puffy eye as he opened the door.

The late afternoon sun gave the room a depressed glow.  Garish floral wallpaper, damp and torn, curled in at the ceiling and along seams.  Large rectangles and squares on the walls showed where paintings had hung for a long time, but were now gone. It was likely a ladies sitting room once.  The wide floor boards creaked under Ospenov’s bulk.  The only furniture was a mattress.  Three young men, pale and frightened, sat huddled together upon it.

“Up!  Up!  I show you to my friend,” he bellowed. 

The three boys stood quickly. 

The Italian walked up to them.  He looked them over with the lascivious eye of a man who appreciates youth and beauty. The first was short, long blond hair pulled back sloppily in a bun. He had a broad chest and shoulders that strained his stained and fitted shirt.  The second’s eyes were swollen and red from crying.  He was over six feet and extremely slender. His hands shook.  The longer the Italian stood in front of him, the more he shook.  A tear raced down the side of his nose. 

The Italian leaned forward, squeezed his hand and whispered “Du er trygg.” 

He raised his gaze, level with the Italian’s. All he could see was his own reflection in the sunglasses.

“You whisper sweet nothings to that one?” Ospenov shouted from the doorway.

“He is lovely.” The Italian called back.

The fat mobster chuckled to himself.

The third boy looked familiar.  Even with the greasy dark stains on his white tee, the obvious lines of binding beneath, and the tear in the knee of his blue jeans, the Italian recognized him.

“This one isn’t quite a boy, no?” 

Ospenov guffawed.  “You have an eye, my friend!  Indeed, this one is becoming a boy. Still has girl parts.”

The Italian pulled a cigarette from his jacket and offered it to the young man. He took it with quivering fingers.  The Italian lit it.  The young man took a long drag.

“Ah, a fag to steady his nerves?  You must treat your boys well, my friend.  You like this one? You can try him for free.”

“I’d like to buy this one.”

The young man trembled.  The Italian caught the cigarette between his tan fingers as it fell from the boy’s lips.

“Before you try him?” Ospenov narrowed his puffy eyes. 

“I know what I like, mio amico.” He turned back to the trembling boy before him. “Where are you from?” He ran his fingers along the pale arm.

“London,” he said softly.

The Italian nodded. His phone pinged.  He stepped away from the young men to check his phone.  His nimble fingers flew across the screen.  “The funds have been deposited. You will have your first delivery in ninety minutes.”

“Excellent! Excellent, my friend! Let’s have some dinner.  I have a fine bottle of brandy from your country.  We can celebrate while we wait.”

“Indeed,” the Italian said, thin lips pressed into a half smile. “I’d like my boy clean before I take him. Can we get him a shower? And his friends?”

“What?” Ospenov looked at the terrified line up. “Yes. They are a bit dirty.” He turned to speak to his guards in Russian. 

The Italian faced the three boys, pulled his glasses down so they could see his blue-grey eyes. He dropped his Sicilian accent “When I say down, you all get down and stay down. Do I make myself clear?”

Three heads shook.

Mycroft sighed.  “I don’t have time to explain.”

An explosion shook the house.  Glass shattered.  The thrum of helicopter rotors buzzed from all directions.  Machine gun fire came from within and outside the house.  A single bullet embedded in the wall behind the boys.

“Down!” Mycroft shouted. He threw himself, arms akimbo, across the three, and pushed them to the dirty mattress.  He landed on his stomach between the tall Norwegian and Jack.

“Jack,” Mycroft shouted into his ear. Jack turned in surprise. “We’re getting out of here but I need you to trust me. I don’t normally do field work.  Help me keep these two down and out of the way.”

Jack nodded. Mycroft reached under his trouser leg for the handgun strapped to his calf.  “Get them into that corner. I think it’s a closet. Keep low to the floor. Wait for me.” 

Jack grabbed the two Norwegian boys and tugged them towards the corner.  The blond tried to stand.  Jack and the other boy pulled him flat, and they all crawled to what they hoped was relative safety.

Ospenov forgot his Italian business friend. He cowered in the doorway, shouting orders in Russian.  The pounding of jack-booted feet echoed along the bare halls of the manse. Mycroft, still laying on the dirty mattress, took aim.  The bullet hit the wide right arm of the mobster. Ospenov clasped his wound with his left hand, still shouting in Russian. He turned to see Mycroft, laying on the mattress, glasses off, pistol still aimed at him. Ospenov let out a stream of obscenities in Russian. Before he could do anything more than turn on the spot, three special ops swung in through the windows, fully armed, jump cords trailing behind them.

In the mayhem, Mycroft ripped off his wig.  He kept low and moved towards the three terrified young men in the corner.

“Jack?” He knelt beside him.

“How do you know me?”

“I’m Mychelle Holmes’ father. We’ll get you home safely.”

***

_ There is an abandoned hotel on Woolwich Street where you will find several Kazakh gangsters and some missing young people. - MH _

_ The ones I’ve been looking for? - SWH _

_ All except for Jack. He’s with me. - MH _

_ Where are you? - SWH _

_ Stop over in Rome to change flights.  I’ll see you tomorrow. - MH _


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John and Lestrade all end up at the same location, working the same case from different angles.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock jogged down the pavement.

“Bloody hell. Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

John rounded the corner. “Greg?”

“John,” he nodded.

“Homeless missing teens?” Sherlock tidied his shirt.

Lestrade shook his head. “My daughter Jenny went missing last night. I tracked her phone here.”

“Shit,” John muttered as he looked up at the darkened and blocked windows of the old hotel.

“Mycroft texted. Said we’d find some gangsters and missing teens at this location.  I presume it’s to do with the sex trafficking case I’ve been working on.” Sherlock took stock of every building and window he could see.

“Mycroft went to eastern Europe.”

Sherlock nodded.  “He said the gangsters were from Kazakhstan.”

“What’s he doing with Kazakh gangsters?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Guns? Drugs? Cars? There’s quite the market for stolen American and Western European cars in the former Bloc countries.”

Greg’s eyes went wide. “I thought it was some political thing.”

“Well, yeah, it is,” John stepped beside him. “Eventually the E.U. needs to ease sanctions, increase trade, and help build markets in and with these poorer countries. Then they can focus on educating and training their young people so the countries become contributors to the global economy. Politics.” 

“Also a member of Parliament was recently found to have ties to gun smuggling through Kazakhstan into Afghanistan.  I’m sure my brother is there to break the smuggling ring and get this fool quietly shuffled off so as not to cause a public scandal.”

“Or World War III,” John added.

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. 

“Do you have a search warrant?” John kept one eye on his husband who was testing the padlock on the fence gate.

“Waiting for it to come through.  Miller and Khan are going to bring it.”

“You don’t have cars or anything.” John looked up and down the mostly empty street.

“I’m on holiday this week. Got the kids visiting. I’m on my own. Waiting for backup.”

“An opening!” Sherlock hissed. He found the gap in the fence.

“Oi, no warrant yet.” Lestrade hissed back.

“When does Sherlock Watson-Holmes need a warrant?” John winked at Greg. “You stay here and wait for the warrant. I’m going with him.”

Sherlock slipped through the opening. He held the gap open for John. Lestrade stood alone on the street for a few seconds, anxiety coursing through his body. A pale hand reached back through the opening in the fence and beaconed him. 

“Sod it,” Lestrade muttered.  He clambered through the gap.

On the other side of the fence, Sherlock had already moved into the shadowy doorway of the hotel. John made sure Lestrade didn’t get caught on the chainlink and splintered wood. 

“This isn’t legal,” Greg whispered.

“Sherlock doesn’t worry about that.”

“That’s cos the prat’s brother always gets him off.”

“The prat’s brother is your partner. He can get you off, too.”

They stopped and went wide eyed.

“I meant legally, mate.” John blushed.

“Yeah. Still…”

“Yeah. Not the place for double entendres.”

“Are you two going to chat like Mrs. Hudson and my mother by the door, or are we going to look for some kidnap victims?”

“Did your husband just call us gossiping old ladies?” Greg whispered as they dashed towards the shadowy doorway. He pulled a pistol from his holster. 

John took out his service revolver. “Inspiration through insults.”

“Is that what you shot the cabbie with?” 

“How did you…?”

Greg shot him a pointed look.

Sherlock turned to them with a finger pressed to his lips.

The art deco glass paneled doors were painted black.  One of the panes was missing.  Sherlock peered in, then dropped below the level of the opening. He motioned to Greg and John to move further along the building. The three of them, bent double, scurried under the level of windows all painted, broken or boarded. The tall grass and leaf litter rustled under their feet. They paused at a staff entrance with the words Dining Room painted on the door.

“Lobby is full of people.  Lights, sheets, camera equipment. Like a photo shoot.” Sherlock said breathlessly. 

“Makes sense. If you’re going to lure victims in, you want it to look legit.” John pulled on the door. It opened easily. He peered in. “All clear.”

Lestrade, pistol still drawn, went in first.  Sherlock followed, John kept his eye and gun on their backs until they were all inside. 

The dining room was mostly in shadow.  Some light from the street came in from the higher arched windows that were not blocked. A door at the far end of the dining room was ajar and allowed in some light from the corridor. 

The three made their way through the maze of tables and overturned chairs.  Sherlock listened by the door, then looked up and down the hall. He strained his ear for voices.  Most came from the right, where the photo set up in the lobby was.  He ran silently to the left. Greg and John followed, careful not to make too much noise.

The staircase reeked of old urine and mold.  Every surface was covered in graffiti. A used needle sat in the corner, a spider web arched in a canopy over it. Years of neglect and criminal activity were splattered around in DNA and paint. 

“Why this way?” Greg whispered. 

“Second floor has a ballroom over the lobby. It was used in a commercial for some celebrity perfume ad. They’ll likely have another set up there.”

“A lot of effort for kidnapping and sex trafficking.” John commented.

“Not everyone is kidnapped. The mob is using a legitimate photographer as cover.  Rooms on the third floor on this end are likely used to hold the ones they plan on moving out of the country.”

Lestrade nodded. “Rick Burroughs said the building owner was making a mint on renting this place out to some French fashion photographer, which is what has been holding up demolition.”

Sherlock and John looked at him quizzically.

“His daughter went missing with Jenny. He works for the mayor’s office.”

The Watson-Holmes’ nodded. 

“Let’s go,” Sherlock took the stairs two at a time.

***

“Did you have to hit him so hard?” Greg hissed, examining the slumped body at his feet.

“Better than shooting him.” John replied. He knelt and bound the guard’s wrists with zip ties.  Sherlock handed him a gag to wrap the guard’s mouth.

***

Jenny tucked the dusty bedclothes around her friend.  She had vomited up the contents of her stomach hours earlier. And the hallucinations stopped before she passed out.  Ty shivered slightly.  Jenny placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and rubbed her arm.  

The photographer had appeared legitimate.  The lobby and ballroom were set up with lighting and gear.  Craft service tables with bottled waters, bags of crisps and cold pizza were staffed by hoodie wearing thug-types who made coffee and tea upon request.  Fabio wasn’t the only model on site.  There were about a dozen tall, slender people milling about the hotel.  Most had a distant look in their eyes.  One mumbled about miniature circus animals before being carried off like a child by one of the hoodie wearing staff. 

She knew enough to accept, but not consume much, when offered a drink. The beer was room temperature and smelled cheap.  Jenny recognized the effects of what was likely ketamine in the people around her.  She couldn’t warn Tyrene to not down her drink.  A six foot tall mixed race woman with stilettos and unnaturally long purple fingernails unwound Ty’s bun to style her braids in different ways.  A ginger guy, skin all freckled, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a suit jacket, handed Ty a drink and flirted with her as the tall woman played with her hair.  

Fabio leaned close to Jenny’s ear.  “Drink up, luv. It’s a party.”

She didn’t drink much, but it was enough.  She couldn’t move.  People and colours whirled around her, laughter and shouting seemed to come from a great distance.  Her head felt like it had been wrapped in cotton wool. She saw the ginger toss Tyrene over his shoulder and head for a staircase.  Jenny tried to call out.  She thought she moved her mouth. No sound emerged. She couldn’t feel her lips. 

Her father was going to go mental.

The door opened.  A willowy woman in her twenties with faded blue hair padded in, barefoot, bearing a tray with sandwiches.  She put the tray on the dresser. When she saw Ty wrapped in all the bedclothes, she came over to take her pulse. 

“She had too much Special K.”

“Yeah,” Jenny rolled her eyes.

“How old are you?” 

“Sixteen.”

“How the hell did you get here?  You don’t look like the others.”

Jenny was intrigued.  “What others?”

The blue haired woman sat on the other side of Ty and stroked her hair soothingly. “Most of us got here cos of modeling. Or drugs. I was offered cash to get my knickers off and have some photos taken. I’ve sold my body for less. S’not easy on the streets.” She looked into Jenny’s eyes.  “You don’t look like us. You aren’t tall. You’re not junkie. And you look too clean to be hookers.”

“A friend of ours went missing. Told Tyrene here she was getting a modeling gig. I came up for hols and we thought we’d look for her.”

“Aine? The green eyed one?”

“You know her? Is she here?”

The blue haired woman hushed her. “Not so loud. Yeah. She was being photographed and dressed up yesterday. For sale. Potential buyer in Saudi Arabia looking for green eyed girls.”

“But she’s still here?”

“Yeah. I just brought her food.”

Jenny looked at the sleeping girl beside her.  “We can’t do anything until Ty’s conscious.  Once she is, I need to know what room Aine’s being kept in. We need to get out of here.”

“You can’t escape. There are guards everywhere.”

“My dad’s a Detective. He’ll find us.” She said with more confidence than she felt.

“He’ll also go mental once he’s got you to safety.”

The girls looked up.  Three men stood in the doorway. 

“Dad?” Jenny jumped up and into the arms of her father.

“Sherlock?”

“Sophie.”

“Hey, Sophie.”

“John?”

Sherlock moved quickly to the bed and took Tyrene’s pulse.  “Ketamine?” Both Sophie and Jenny nodded. He lifted her gently.  “No time to wait for her to get conscious. Where are the others?”

Sophie, at the door with John, looked up and down the corridor. “Their friend is two doors down,” she pointed. “And there are others.  About seven.  They moved some out a few days ago.”  

Greg’s phone buzzed.  “It’s Miller.  They’re outside. And ready.”

“Alright. I’ll take her and Jenny,” Sherlock got a better hold on the sleeping girl.  “You three round up all the others.  Sophie, are there any others like this one?”

She shook her head. “Nah. Some are a bit strung out, but they can all move.”

“Get them. Bring them down the back stairs we came up.  Lestrade, tell Miller to move as soon as you get those kids to the stairs.”

Greg kissed his daughter’s head. “We’ll have words later, young lady. Go!” 

Sherlock and Jenny ran out. John and Greg, weapons drawn, followed Sophie. Room by room, they gathered up terrified teens and young people.  Aine recognized Lestrade and gave him a quick hug. “Jenny’s here. She came looking for you. Keep quiet and follow John.” 

The girl wiped tears from her red-rimmed eyes and nodded. “They were going to sell me on line.”

“I know,” Greg sighed.  “Now go!” He gently pushed her into the corridor where John and Sophie stood with half dozen others. 

John led the way, weapon drawn.  Lestrade brought up the rear, looking behind him and listening for sounds that were not the shuffling of feet in front of him on the carpeted hall. Once the door was closed behind him, Greg grabbed his mobile. “Now.”

***

Woolwich Road was blocked.  To Jenny it looked like half the London police service was there.  She sat in the back of an ambulance wrapped in an orange blanket.  Tyrene had woken up and was being looked after by the paramedics. Ty had asked for Jenny to stay with her in the ambulance until her parents arrived. 

Aine, also wrapped in an orange blanket, jumped from the back of another ambulance and ran over to Jenny.  They hugged. Aine wept. 

“I was so scared, Jen. What the hell were you and Ty thinking?”

“Not thinking much, clearly.” Jenny petted her friend’s hair. “Thought we could find you. Didn’t know it was this serious.”

***

Mychelle and Evan stood at the edge of the line of police cars.  Khan recognized them and lifted the tape. 

“Thanks for coming so quickly.  We found Aine, but not Jack.”

“My father has Jack.”

Priya Khan shot Mychelle a quizzical look. 

“He found Jack in Kazakhstan.”

“How…?”

“Her father is the British Government,” Sherlock’s imperious tone cut through the cacophony.

Khan nodded, “Mr. Holmes.”

“Uncle Sherlock,” Mychelle smiled. 

“I’ll take them from here, Detective Khan,” Sherlock dismissed her with a look. He walked ahead of Evan and Mychelle, leaving a stunned Khan behind them. 

Mychelle and Evan got into the ambulance with Aine. With their friend gone, Ty and Jenny sat together with their shock blankets, clutching hot cups of coffee. 

“Your parents are here, Tyrene.” John’s calm voice was reassuring.  “They’re talking with Lestrade.”

“I’m in so much trouble.” Ty hung her head.

“Well, yeah,” John said. “But I had a word with them. Reminded them all what it’s like to be a teenager.  How you feel immortal. How you don’t quite understand the consequences of your actions.  I threw in some stuff about teen brain development.  It helps to have a doctor on your side, ladies.” He winked.

“They’ll murder me.”

“Nah,” John patted her knee.  “I heard the word grounded. And suggestions about your mobile being taken away for a bit. Besides, you’re all getting a ride in an ambulance so you can get checked out at hospital. So that will likely soften them a bit.”  Ty groaned.  “But Sherlock pointed out that the two of you helped to solve three missing person cases, stopped a drug and sex trafficking ring, and saved the lives of half a dozen people in there.  Oh, and now your father and the council can pressure the property owner to sell so the new construction can start. He did stop short of calling you both heroes.”

Sherlock, Lestrade and the Burroughs stood behind John. “With that, ladies, I leave you with your parents.”

Sherlock, hands in trouser pockets, extended an elbow to his husband. John slipped his arm through. They matched strides and wound their way through the maze of cars and officers. 

“Do you think Olivia will be like that when she’s sixteen?”

“Stupid? Careless?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, but I mean brave. Caring. Putting her friends before her own safety. Knowing to text us so we can find her.”

Sherlock grinned.  “You want to know if she’ll be like you.” He lifted the yellow tape for John to walk under.

“I suppose I do.” 

“She’ll be better.”

“Why’s that?”

“She has me to teach her how to be smart about it.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home safe

_ Where you safe in Kazakhstan? - SWH _

_ Do you suddenly care, brother mine? - MH _

_ I care what happens to Lestrade if you die. - SWH _

_ He would be the first person contacted should my death be confirmed. - MH _

_ Good.  But will he be taken care of if you die? - SWH _

_ He is an adult who has lived on his own previously. I’m sure he can care for himself. Where is this coming from? - MH _

_ John and I made our wills when I adopted Olivia. But even those could have been contested by our families. That is part of the reason I married John.  There are benefits to being married, Mycroft.  If you love him, you’ll consider this. - JWH _

_ … _

_ … _

_ Thank you, little brother. - MH _

_ And don’t forget to tell him your full name before the officiant does on the day. - SWH _

***

**Saturday Morning**

It hadn’t rained for weeks. Mother Nature was making up for lost time. Wind buffeted rain in sheets against the windows, and drummed a steady rhythm upon the roof.  Tony fussed over his sister, bringing her tea and sandwiches in bed, and watching all her favourite nature documentaries with her.  He stood silently outside her door while their dad shouted and ranted about stupidity and safety and didn’t she ever learn anything being the daughter of a copper, and how very proud he was of her.  In the end, she did not get her mobile taken away. And their mother would not be told until after they got back to Cornwall. He would drive them home Sunday morning so he could explain it to her in person. 

After their dad had his say, Tony refused to leave his sister alone for too long.  One punch to the arm told him he didn’t have to wait outside the loo door for her. Jenny didn’t mind too much. She knew her little brother had been scared out of his mind while she was gone.  

_ In London. Will be home soon. How are the children? - MH _

_ Alive. Hiding in Jenny’s room watching Attenborough narrated nature docs. I miss you. - GL _

_ And I you. - MH _

Lestrade had filled out paperwork at home. He had dressed for work, but couldn’t bear to leave Tony and Jenny alone.  Khan stopped by to pick it up.

“Sorry you had to come out here for this.  I don’t want to leave the kids.”

She shook her umbrella out and leaned it against the wall in the mudroom. “No worries, sir. I understand. How is she?”

They walked to the kitchen. Greg handed her a mug of tea. 

“She’s fine. A bit shaken from it all. I think she thought she had the situation under control. Too confident that daddy would come save her.”

Khan nodded. “And you did. I understand your friends, the Watson-Holmes’, were also working on the case. Not sure how I feel about the public’s confidence being undermined in the police service by a couple of amateurs.”

Greg cringed.  “Consulting detectives.  Not amateurs.  It wasn’t them that found the hotel first. It was Mycroft.”

“Your partner?”

“Not sure I’m allowed to say how. But yeah, he found Jack.”

Khan nodded.  “Jack’s being brought in for questioning once he’s cleared at the hospital.”

Greg took a long gulp of coffee. He was lost in his thoughts.  Priya picked up the folder from the counter. “I’ll just take these and see myself out.”

“Oh. Ta. See you Monday.”

Greg, in jeans and the sleeves on his white button down rolled up past his elbows, tie askew, looked out the bay window of the kitchen to the garden. The rain had let up a bit.  No more paperwork to file. No more shouting to be done. Too early for a drink. Feeling a bit claustrophobic, he went for a walk. 

Mycroft hung his damp trench coat on the hall tree. He left his soaked umbrella open in the entrance to dry.  Setting his luggage down, he arched and stretched his back.  It was good to be home. He strained his ears. No television. No pop music. No arguing teens.  At the very least he expected Greg to be shouting at his children.  Nothing. 

He left the bags where he dropped them.  As he climbed the stairs, two nervous faces peered out of Jenny’s bedroom. Mycroft stood on the landing, hands in his trouser pockets.

“I understand one of you had an adventure while I was gone.”

Tears filled Jenny’s eyes.  A blubbering sob escaped her mouth. Before Mycroft could react, five and a half feet of weeping teenage girl flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his waist. 

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled into his suit, smearing tears and snot all over it. “Dad’s yelled. Please, please don’t be angry with me. Please don’t leave dad cos of me.”

Mycroft slowly removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed Jenny’s back. He raised a pair of quizzical eyebrows at Tony.  The boy shrugged. 

“Jennifer,” his tone was gentle.  “Please look at me.” He waited for her to lift her head and step back. He placed his hands on her shoulders and locked gazes.

“I am incredibly relieved you are home and well.  What you did was foolish, but it was also very brave.  You have a lot of your father in you. I love your father very much. And nothing you nor your brother can do will change that.”

Her shoulders shook.

Mycroft felt lost. He was being honest and direct. How much more reassuring did he have to be?

“Anthony?”

“When mum and dad would fight, mum would say dad was a bad influence on us. Specially Jenny. Said he inspired us to take risks.”

Mycroft nodded.  “I see.” He let go of Jenny’s shoulders.  “Do you both understand that you were in no way responsible for your parent’s divorce?”

Tony nodded.  Jenny gave a noncommittal shrug. 

“Your father’s career, and your mother’s inability to understand it, was what drove them apart.”

Both teens nodded.

“Your father and I are compatible because we both have careers that keep us away from home for days on end.  Neither of us get to work at eight and are home for supper.  We keep long hours, deal with dangerous people, and are grateful for the time we have together.”

“So you won’t leave dad?” Jenny hiccuped.

“No, Jennifer, I won’t.”

Tears renewed as she threw herself at Mycroft’s middle again.  He awkwardly rubbed her back.  Tony came out to join the hug. 

“Are you crying as well, Anthony?”

“No, sir,” he sniffled.  “I just need a hug, too.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposal, because not all legal documents are as solid and uncontested as a marriage.

Mycroft looked out the French doors and into the rain drenched garden.  He could see his partner in the gazebo. Well, he could see the trail of cigarette smoke as it curled through the rain drops. Greg was likely lying upon a bench. Mycroft tapped his umbrella against his foot before he walked out of the house. 

“Not that I blame you, of course,” he said drolly as he approached the gazebo. “But we did both agree to giving those up.”

“Fuck.” Greg sat up quickly.

“Don’t extinguish it. After this week, I need one, too.” 

Greg smirked. Mycroft closed his umbrella and sat on the bench.  He gratefully took the half smoked cig from his partner’s chilled fingers.  He took a long drag, leaned back and exhaled slowly.

“How was Kazakhstan?”

“Dreadful.” He took another drag.  “How was your holiday?” He held the cigarette out to Greg.

“Dreadful.” Greg took the last drag and crushed the butt under his heel. “Are you tan?” Greg sat back. 

“A bit, yes.”

“Mycroft Holmes, you look positively Mediterranean.  Are you sure you went to Eastern Europe?”

“Stop over at home office in Rome for a spray tan. No time before I left London.”

“The home office in Rome has a tanning booth?”

“Among other things.”

“Sometimes I think my kids are correct. You’re a right James Bond.”

Mycroft’s lip twitched into a slight smile. “I gave up field work a long time ago. Although there are occasions when I am needed.”

“Like this one.”

“Like this one,” Mycroft nodded.

“Was it dangerous?”

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “More for them, not me. Finding Jack and the other boys complicated things a bit.  I had not planned on shooting my contact.”

“You shot someone?  Were you in danger?”

“While it was not one of the top three plans, it was in the contingency.  I did have ample backup.”

They sat quietly side by side for several minutes.

“Would I have known if things had gone south for you over there? Would anyone have told me?” Greg leaned his elbows on his thighs. Silence between them was marked by the patter of rain. “If anything happens to you, Mycroft, will I be the last person to know?”

“No.” He swallowed audibly.  “You would not be the last person to know. I updated my emergency contact and next of kin to you when you moved into the house.”

“What? You didn’t say.”

“I asked you to share a home and a life with me, Greg. I felt it was implied that you would also be listed first among my family.”

“Oh,” Greg fidgeted nervously, he rolled the sleeves of his white button down closer to his elbows. He felt flush with emotion. “I didn’t update mine. Not since I changed it from Lucy to John.”

“My brother-in-law is listed as your next of kin?”

“He’s my best mate. We changed it together. Long time ago.  At the time he didn’t want Harry to be contacted, and Sherlock was dead. Turns out he never changed it when he was with Mary.  He told me when he married Sherlock that he updated his so Sherlock’s his emergency and next of kin.  But I just left him. He’s like a brother, ya know?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Indeed.”

The wind shifted and drove the rain sideways into the gazebo.  Mycroft opened his umbrella.  He straddled the bench, brolly at his back to shield them from the worst of it. 

“Greg,” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Greg. I would like to be listed first as your next of kin in case of emergency.”

“Yeah. I’ll update forms with HR when I get to work on Monday. Makes sense.”

Mycroft sighed. “Greg, please look at me.”

Lestrade straddled the bench and dipped his head under the umbrella. Mycroft’s face was all in shadows. Greg could just see the outline of his features.

“Gregory Lestrade, may I have the honour of being your next of kin?”

“Woah, full first name. You never use that. I said I’ll update the forms at work. And I’ll call my doctor’s office. I’ll sort it.”

He sighed again and reached one hand to cover both of Greg’s.

“Gregory Lestrade, may I have the honour of being your life partner, next of kin, and husband?”

“What?”

“I do apologize for not having a ring. We have not discussed jewelry. I would presume something plain in titanium. But I would prefer we choose them together.  If that is alright with you.”

“You’ve just asked me to marry you?”

“Yes I have. What do you say?”

Greg closed the space between them to press his nicotine stained lips to Mycroft’s. “I say yes, Mycroft Holmes. I would be honoured to be your husband.”

“Let’s give up smoking, though. I do not like the way you taste right now.”

They laughed softly together.

“Shall we tell my kids?”

Mycroft pointed towards the house. Greg looked over his shoulder.  Jenny and Tony were on the landing of the first floor, jumping about and cheering. “I asked their permission before I came out.  Hope you don’t mind.”

***

_ Brother mine, would you and your family be able to attend a wedding the first Saturday of July? - MH _

_ Tedious. No - SWH _

_ It’s my wedding, little brother. - MH _

_ … _

_ Hey Mycroft. Sherlock just went catatonic.  What’s going on? -JWH _

_ I have invited your little family to my wedding the first Saturday of July. - MH _

_ Not sure if that deserves an ‘it’s about time’ or ‘wow that’s fast’. But I’m chuffed for you and Greg. - JWH _

_ Does that mean your family will attend? - MH _

_ Wouldn’t miss it. Details? - JWH _

_ Greg and I will come by next weekend to fill you in. - MH _

***

_ Mychelle, will you be in London the first weekend of July? - MH _

_ Hey. Yeah. What’s up? - My _

_ Detective Inspector Lestrade and I are getting married at City Hall on the first Saturday. - MH _

_ CONGRATS!  That is amazing! Do mom and Aunt Lydia know? - My _

_ Yes. Your mother will be in Milan for a photoshoot. My mother and father will be in attendance. - MH _

_ I’ll get a new hat :) _

_ Did you just send me a smiley face? - MH _

_ Gotta run. Love to your D.I. - My _

***

_ Jenny Lestrade sent a new photo _

Greg clicked on the message.  It was a picture of Jenny, long brown hair in a single plait that hung over her left shoulder, wide brimmed salmon pink hat upon her head.  The hat took up most of the screen.

_ What do you think? - Jenny _

_ It’s bigger than your head! - Dad _

_ You should see what Tony got. - Jenny _

Greg tried not to panic while he waited for the inevitable photo to arrive.

The image was not what Greg expected.  The lanky fringe that had covered his son’s face a few weeks earlier during school holiday was cut short. It stood softly atop his head, going in all directions, reminding Greg of his own hair in his youth.  Tony was not wearing any make up.  The thick captive bead ring that had been in his ear was replaced by a simple stud.  He looked uncomfortable in a white button down, dark tie and grey jacket.

_ He looks different. What happened? - Dad _

_ He won’t talk about it. But he hasn’t stolen my eyeliner in weeks.  And the nail varnish has been cut way back. - Jenny _

Mycroft slipped his arms around Greg’s waist and placed a kiss where his collar met his salt and pepper hair. “You aren’t working on your one day off this month, are you, Detective Inspector?” 

Greg leaned back into his fiance’s arms.  “Too much wedding planning to do. Got texts from Jenny.”

The photo of Tony was still on the screen. He lifted it so Mycroft could get a better look.

“He looks an awful lot like his father,” Mycroft commented.

“He’s not wearing any makeup.  Jenny says he hasn’t for weeks.”

Mycroft nodded, kissed Greg’s neck again, and wandered to the refrigerator. Greg watched him suspiciously.

“Did you say anything to him while they were here?”

Mycroft opened the sleek silver door and retrieved a yoghurt. “I may have shown him some photographs.”

“Of?”

Mycroft pulled a brown envelope from inside his jacket. “You don’t have to wait until Christmas to see photographs of me.”

Greg cocked his eyebrows as he gingerly took the envelope.  The first photo he pulled out was of a teenage Mycroft in heavy eyeliner, short spiked hair and leather pants.

“Dear God.”

He pulled a spoon from the drawer and slowly ate the yoghurt while watching Greg’s face.

The next photo was Mycroft in heels and a leather mini skirt. Greg scratched his head thoughtfully. “You showed these to Tony while they were here?”

“Yes.”

“And you told him to stop wearing makeup?”

“No.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing much.”

“This ‘nothing much’ clearly had an impact on him.”

Mycroft nodded, mouth intentionally full.

“Mycroft…”

He swallowed. “It may have been a very long time ago, but I remember quite distinctly what it was like to be a teenager.  To feel out of place. To struggle with my identity. Just because one wears makeup and dresses a… certain way, it does not mean that one will be unable to change. Or succeed in life. Seeing Anthony was a bit like looking at myself in a rear view mirror.  And I realized that a little bit of that version of myself was still inside me.”

“Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear?”

“Indeed.”

“So, um… do you still have this studded collar?”


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how Sherlock isn't his first name?
> 
> Mycroft isn't his first name either.

“Have you told him yet?” Sherlock rested his left ankle over his right knee and steepled his fingers. 

Mycroft bristled slightly as he poured tea. “Not yet.” He handed his mother the first cup.

Lydia stirred sugar into the amber liquid. “Oh, Mikey, really.  I can’t believe you’ve been with young Gregory for nearly seven months and haven’t told him.”

“I can’t believe he’s proposed and hasn’t told him.”

“It’s… awkward…” Mycroft handed his brother a cup and saucer.

“It isn’t like you use it,” Lydia’s lilting voice muffled slightly in the cup as she sipped.  

“You shouldn’t keep secrets in a marriage, brother mine.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow over his cup at his brother.

“Are we to presume you’ve told John everything?” Mycroft replied smugly.

“Occasionally something will come up that we didn’t know about one another. But nothing I intentionally have kept secret from him.  I have trusted John with my life for years.”

Lydia nodded.  “While there are acceptable secrets in a marriage, this would not be one of them.”

Mycroft sighed.

“You’re getting married next weekend, Mikey.  You need to tell him.”

***

Mycroft knew Greg was home for a shower and a change of clothes.  He was in the midst of a rather messy homicide case, and found himself waist deep in a cesspool in an attempt to retrieve evidence.  He had showered at the station, but the only clean clothes he had in his locker was his rugby gear. 

_ Going home for a second shower and a fresh suit before I head back. Don’t want to startle you if you’re home. - GL _

_ How unpleasant for you. I am with Mummy. She dragged me hat shopping after my fitting. Tedious. - MH _

Wedding shopping and tea with his mother and Sherlock had not been as mind-numbingly boring as he had feared.  Mycroft enjoyed trips to his tailor. And he found himself thrumming with excitement at the thought of marrying his partner. He wanted to look his best on the day. He wanted to see Greg’s eyes light up, and his lips curl into that smile that unwaveringly declared he found Mycroft handsome and desirable.  He was alternately elated and nervous.  He spent a lifetime railing against sentiment and commitment.  Here he was a week away from his wedding. Granted it was his second wedding. As he was never romantically attached to Portia, the planning, the ceremony, and their partnership was only ever to protect her and the baby from the unsuitable father. This time he felt the way other people described feeling before their weddings.

Mycroft stood just inside the front door.  He sighed and smiled.  He could hear the shower still running, and the inevitable strains of George Michael blasting from the sound system in their bedroom.

_ Hey, you're just too funky for me _

_ I gotta get inside of you _

_ And I'll show you heaven, if you let me _

_ Hey, you're just too funky for me _

_ I gotta get inside (I gotta get inside) _

_ I gotta get inside of you (so, when will that be?) _

_ I watch your fingers working overtime (overtime) _

_ I've got to thinking that they should be mine _

_ I'd love to see you naked, baby _

_ I'd like to think that sometime, maybe _

_ Tonight, if that's alright, yeah _

 

Mycroft shook his head in amusement.  

Greg was sitting on the edge of their bed drying his hair with a flannel, plush white towel wrapped around his waist.. He looked up when he heard Mycroft approach.

“I thought you said you were with Lydia.” He smiled as Mycroft leaned in for a light kiss. Greg stopped the song.

“I was. But I wanted to see you before you go back to work.”

“Nice. No time for a quickie, though. I’ve got to get back.” Greg winked.

Mycroft smirked. “That’s quite alright. Actually, there is something I need to tell you.”

Greg’s eyes went wide.  The look on Mycroft’s face was serious. “What’s going on?”

“You remember that my brother’s first name is not Sherlock?”

Greg nodded.

“His full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“I remember from their wedding.”

“Well, Mycroft is not my first name.  It is also my second name.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “Alright…”

***

Anderson wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Miller tried to swallow his laughter, but coughed in  his mirth. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright you two. Get it out of your systems.”  Lestrade rolled his eyes. 

“You had no idea?” Miller sniffled and tittered.

“None.”

“I suppose this sort of thing happens all the time with same sex couples.” Anderson attempted to sound reassuring.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Greg threw up his hands. “But normally it’s something you know when you meet them. Not a week before your sodding wedding!”

“Hey, Guv, keep it down. Not right shouting like this at a crime scene.” Miller nodded towards the group of gawkers that had pulled out their mobiles to capture what they could of the three detectives behind the tape.

Miller and Anderson broke into laughter.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding Day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The London City Hall is an interesting looking building. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_Hall,_London check out this wiki page. London's Living Room is at the top floor of City Hall.

The first Saturday of July dawned in pastel shades of pink and orange.  The sky faded to yellow and white before the cloudless azure was all Mycroft could see between the branches.  He sat in the gazebo in the garden, sipping coffee from a bone china cup, saucer on the bench beside him. The air was warm, but blessedly not humid. A front was predicted to move through later in the day to bring steamy summer weather. He toed his slippers off and stretched his bare feet to catch the golden fingers of sunlight that filtered through the garden.

***

“Papa! Papa!” Olivia thumped on her fathers’ bedroom door.  “Daddy says breakfast.”

Sherlock opened the door and groggily scratched his hip. He was shirtless and clutched the sheet around his waist.  “Your father is a prat.”

“No bad words, Papa.”

“Who said that’s a bad word?”

“Nanny said.”

“Nanny Martha needs to mind her own business.”

Olivia glared at her father. “And put some clothes on.” 

“Sometimes you’re an awful lot like your Uncle Mycroft.”

***

Gregory Holmes looked befuddled.  He stood before the mirror gazing down at his shirt.

“Oh, Gregory,” Lydia tittered as she turned him to face her.  She unbuttoned and re-buttoned his shirt. 

“Ah. I knew there was something off. Couldn’t tell where it was.” 

Lydia finished tidying her husband’s shirt and leaned her face upwards. Gregory leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“I’d be lost with you.”

“Indeed you would, Mister Holmes.  Don’t forget to put your trousers on.”

“Did Mycroft tell young Gregory?”

“He did.”

“How did it go?”

“We’re headed to their wedding once your trousers are on, aren’t we?” Her blue eyes twinkled.

***

Mychelle sat at her dressing table, phone propped against the mirror. She spritzed her hair as she chatted.

“Oh, mum, I wish you could be here.  Father has been adorably nervous.”

The face on the screen disappeared for a moment. Portia reappeared. “I can’t eat and chat at the same time. I dropped my croissant.” She sadly waved a half eaten pastry at the screen.

Mychelle placed a lime fascinator at a slight angle and pinned it in place.

“Bold colour, luv. What is Aunt Lydia wearing?”

“Electric blue.”

“Oh, she’ll be stunning.  Do take lots of snaps for me.”

“Of course.”

“Have you met the Detective Inspector’s children yet?”

“Not yet. They came up from Cornwall yesterday.  I will meet them at city hall.”

“Mycroft didn’t get Wills to perform the ceremony?”

“I don’t think he can now that he’s no longer active military. Besides, I don’t think Greg would have liked that.  Bit posh to have a prince officiate your wedding.”

“Bit weird to have your boss do it, though.”

***

“It’s a day wedding, you cow. You can’t wear that much liner.”

“How would you know?”

“I spent loads of time reading your rubbish magazines when I was learning to apply makeup. Here,” Tony rummaged through his sister’s bag. “Use the brown liner not the black.  And don’t use that shadow.  Don’t you have a neutral one?”

“Are you wearing any?”

“Just a bit of mascara.”

***

Greg, still in pajama bottoms and rumpled tee, walked barefoot through the garden.  His large mug of coffee sent tendrils of steam upwards. The dew was drying, but the chill of the night was still in the flagstones.

“Nice day for it.” He casually leaned against the gazebo.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Mycroft patted the bench. Greg sat down.

“Slept like the dead. Had my last shag as a single man last night.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “How was it?”

“Phenomenal. I met this bloke in a bar. He was all in leather. Had this sort of spiked collar on.” Greg shook his head with a grin. “Tall and fit. He had these blue eyes that sparkled when I made him laugh. Seriously. I’m not being poetic here. He looked a bit like a bounder at first. But once he opened his mouth he came off as a right nob. No toffy nosed git, mind you. He was up for it. Every leather clad inch of him.  I didn’t know I needed a bad boy before I took the plunge.  How about you? How was your night?”

Mycroft blushed slightly. “I also had my last shag, as you call it, as a single man.” He swallowed nervously.

“Excellent.” Greg grinned lasciviously. “ Or was it?”

“Oh, it was. I met a rather fit young police officer.  New to the job. I never knew I’d like a man in uniform. Or handcuffs.”

Greg giggled.

“The reflective safety vest was a bit much though.”

“Yeah, sorry. That didn’t quite go the way I planned. Bit rougher on bare skin than I thought. Who knew?”

“Well,” Mycroft gingerly touched his chest. “We do now.”

They turned their faces towards one another, tilted their heads and gently pressed their lips together. 

“Did you get the staff to clean up the lounge? I don’t want my kids walking in on what we left behind last night.”

“Mmm. I’ve also given them a bonus.”

“Hush money, you mean.” Greg could not stop smiling.

“A simple thank you for their services.”

“A simple thank you for not talking about the disco ball, the rubber sheeting and jelly.” Greg finished his coffee.  “I’m heading in for a shower. You coming?”

“We showered last night. We couldn’t sleep covered in cheap desserts.”

“I’ll just take a quick one and get dressed.  We leave for city hall at noon?”

Mycroft nodded. “Don’t forget to leave that borrowed uniform in the pile for the dry cleaners.  We don’t want any raised eyebrows when you return it to the station.”

“It’ll raise a few eyebrows at the dry cleaners when they get the jelly stained police uniform and leather trousers with our regular suits.”

***

Sherlock and John walked behind Lydia and Gregory, who each held Olivia’s hands. Olivia chattered on about her latest experiment. She was studying the decomposition of different types of grapes.  John at first thought she was making raisins in petri dishes.  

The grey pavement wound around in a spiral towards the oddly spherical glass building.

Sherlock leaned down to whisper in his husband’s ear. “Am I allowed to giggle?”

“Why?”

“My brother is getting married in a giant glass testicle.”

The Holmes’ halted in front of the doors to City Hall. “Why are you boys laughing?” Lydia turned, the dyed ostrich feather on her bright blue hat bobbing.

“Just happy for the grooms,” John grinned widely.

Lydia smirked in disbelief. “You two behave today.  It’s a big day for Mikey and young Gregory.”

In London’s Living Room, on the tenth floor of City Hall, the small wedding party began to congregate. Mychelle, in her lime and white suit and stilettos, chatted with Jenny. Jennifer’s peach and salmon ensemble made the new step sisters look like sherbet flavours. Tony stood quietly off to the side. He did not have a vested interest in how Aine was doing after the kidnapping, but was content to stay near his sister until the ceremony. Greg stood on the observation deck, watching the boat traffic on the murky Thames below.

John joined him. “Lovely day for it, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, gorgeous day.” He shook John’s proffered hand.

“Where’s Mycroft?”

“In the Mayor’s office.”

“Bit weird, isn’t it? Getting married by your boss?”

“I was afraid he’d get some member of the royal family to do it. At least the Lord Mayor’s a city boy like me.”

John nodded. He leaned on the balustrade, forehead resting against the warm glass. A red bottomed barge moved down the center of the river, leaving a gentle wake behind it. “How are you feeling?”

“Thought I’d be nervous. But I think I’m just excited. My insides are doing a little dance.” Greg touched his stomach.

John nodded. “No regrets?”

“None, mate.” 

John straightened up and grabbed Lestrade into a hug, patting him solidly on the back. “I’m really happy for you, Greg.”

“Ta. And thanks for being my best man.” 

John patted his pocket where the rings sat. “It’s my pleasure.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft and the mayor enter the room. “Looks like it’s time. You ready?” 

*******

Sadiq stood with his back to the windows, blinds drawn to keep the brilliant summer sun off the wedding party.  His silver and grey hair was newly trimmed, and stood up in the front. His styling gel not able to control the thick, short hairs. 

“Please repeat after me,” he looked to Mycroft. “I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Gregory Mycroft Reginald Holmes may not be joined in matrimony to Gregory Soissons Lestrade.”

John, standing beside Greg, looked across at his husband.  Tears of mirth streamed from the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. Jenny and Tony, mouths agape, looked to the adults around them.  Mychelle, standing beside Sherlock, bit her lower lip and nodded when Jenny’s huge brown eyes met hers.  Lydia dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. “Lovely,” she whispered.

***

“So,” Jenny approached her new stepfather. “You don’t call my dad by his full first name because it’s your  _ dad’s _ name?”

Mycroft swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his discomfort. “Yes.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. Mychelle came up beside her, phone at the ready, and took a selfie. 

“Got to send snaps to mum. She wants to see my new siblings.” 

Jenny leaned in and posed, making funny faces with Mychelle as she snapped away.  Tony came up behind them.

“Photo bomber!” Jenny laughed, pushing him away. 

“Anthony,” Mycroft called him away. “You look very smart today.”

“Thanks, Mycroft.”

“Just a bit of mascara?” The left side of Mycroft’s mouth curled.

“Just a bit, sir.” 

The door opened and a shy pre-school aged boy in short pants and wide eyes peered into the room.  Mycroft straightened his spine and walked his step son towards the child.  

“Is that…” Tony whispered.

A tall blonde man with a receding hair line and a toddler in a pink dress on his hip appeared.

“Will,” Mycroft smiled and extended his hand to the child’s father. 

“Mycroft,” the prince shook his hand. “Sorry we missed the ceremony.  Kate’s not doing well. Press release will come out soon enough, but I trust you can keep the secret until then. We’re expecting our third!”

“Congratulations, Will. Wonderful news. May I introduce my step son, Anthony Lestrade.” Mycroft closed Tony’s jaw with a finger under the boy’s chin. 

Tony made an awkward bow. William chuckled and shifted Charlotte to his other hip. “Nice to meet you, Anthony. How was your fathers’ wedding?”

“Nnn...nice, your highness.”

“Call me Will,” he smiled at the teen.  William looked around. “Where did George disappear to?”

George had spotted Olivia sitting at a table examining a plate of sweets and cheese in front of her with a small magnifying glass. 

“Are you going to eat those?” His chubby little fingers curled over the top of the table.

“I’m doing science first.”

“Oh.” The boy stared at a mini fruit tart topped with berries. “I like that kind.”

Olivia looked the strange boy up and down, taking in his hair cut, button down shirt, waistcoat and short trousers. “I can share.” She pushed the plate towards him.

George climbed into the empty chair beside her. 

Will and Mycroft laughed.  “It seems my niece has charmed him.”

***

“Is it…”

“Oh, it is.”

“But, Mychelle… how?”

She smiled at her new step sister.  “Father was briefly attached to his mother’s household when the boys were young.  He’s very nice. I used to play with Harry.  Want to go meet him?”

“Mychelle!” William approached and kissed her cheek. “Lovely as ever.  I heard about the work you’re doing. Excellent stuff.  Let me know if I can help.”

Mychelle returned the peck. “I certainly shall.  Wills, may I introduce my new step sister, Jenny.”

“Jenny, lovely to meet you. Sorry to have missed the ceremony. Was it terribly romantic? Mycroft is such a softie.”

“Ngff…” Jenny squeaked.

 

 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a domestic moment after the wedding. New step siblings bond.

“He’s not suitable for our daughter.”

“You need to let it go, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood on the landing of the first floor, Olivia slept against his shoulder.  Her curls were damp from sweat. Her tiny mouth was open, and there was a patch of drool on Sherlock’s shirt.

“He isn’t good enough for her.”

“He’s a prince.”

“I don’t care who he thinks he is. His father was a pompous ass.”

“Um, no, Sherlock.  Prince William was very nice. You just got a bee in your bonnet when he and your brother joked about Prince George and Olivia getting betrothed.”

Olivia wiggled and shifted in her Papa’s arms. “I sleepy.”

“Go put her to bed,” he said gently. “ I’ll put the kettle on.” John stroked Olivia’s curls.

Sherlock came back downstairs and was greeted with the soft thrumming sound of fan blades. The sitting room was lit by a single lamp.  The fan caused the drapes to flutter slightly in the muggy London night. John stood by the open window behind Sherlock’s chair attempting to catch a breeze.  He sipped a glass of brandy. Sherlock spotted a second glass beside his chair.

“I thought you were putting the kettle on.” His baritone vibrated in the sultry summer night.

John smiled thoughtfully as he turned his face towards his husband. “Drink.”

Sherlock swirled the brandy in the tulip glass and inhaled before he sipped.  “Armagnac.”

John nodded. 

“Molly and Barry gave this to us at Christmas.” Sherlock stepped closer. 

John’s smile widened.

“You said, and I shall quote, ‘We will save this for a special occasion. This is really, really great. Really.’ So, what’s the special occasion?”

John reached out to run a finger down the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.  He flattened his hand against the curve of his husband’s ribs and caressed his side before cupping his rear with gentle possessiveness.  

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “You are feeling romantically inclined because of my brother’s nuptials today. You are reminded of our own wedding six months and eight days ago. Which was far more romantic than today’s event. You have a pattern of becoming more aroused than usual when you observe my behaviours as a parent in the greater familial setting of any grouping of the Watson-Holmes clan.”

John’s hand slid across Sherlock’s thigh to brush repeatedly against the front of his trousers. 

“And you are aware that my arousal is heightened when you choose to be dominant and silent.”

John’s smile widened into a lascivious grin. He continued to glide the back of his hand in random patterns over his husband’s growing erection. 

Sherlock placed the unfinished brandy on the windowsill. “Let us continue to examine our regular patterns of sexual behaviour. Last night we traded oral favours.  Two nights prior you spent a glorious hour preparing me with that new vibrating toy you brought home before you sank balls deep into me.” 

John waggled his eyebrows slightly at the memory.

“Two days prior to that was a quick frot before we both passed out from exhaustion. Busy day. Chasing criminals. If we go further back in time, we can see a regular pattern in our sexual behaviour. I therefore deduce, Dr. Watson-Holmes, that when you went to the men’s room before we left the reception for dinner, you inserted a certain favoured toy of yours into a delightfully dark and snug space. Now you are hoping to finish your brandy, take me to our bed, lay upon your back with your legs over my shoulders while I lose my ability to form coherent words as my very erect cock pounds against your prostate.”

“Don’t forget the bit about you licking my chest clean after I ejaculate all over myself before we have a quick shower.” John placed his now empty glass on the windowsill beside Sherlock’s.

“Perish the thought.” Sherlock leaned in for a kiss.  John grabbed his head, slipped his tongue between Sherlock’s lips and snogged him with a bit of force.

“You ate a large quantity of melon at the reception today.” Sherlock suddenly pulled back.

“Oh yes,” John panted.

“And those were cocktails mixed with pineapple juice.”

“I noted the times and quantities on my phone.”

“You avoided the asparagus at dinner, opting instead for more salad.”

“I didn’t want to skew the results.”

“I adore when you include science in your seduction, John.”

“Fuck me?”

Sherlock spun John around and slapped his bum. “The game, Doctor, is on.”

***

Mychelle downed two paracetamol with a large glass of water. She caught her reflection in the kitchen window.  Her lime green fascinator lay on the table beside Jenny’s hat and Tony’s tie and jacket.  It had been a busy day.  She was surprised that her father and Lestrade had not thought about what to do with the teens for the night after the wedding.  They weren’t leaving until Sunday afternoon for Myanmar. Part romantic getaway, part field work, she was certain. She happily suggested swinging by the house for the kids to grab some items, and then take them to her flat. And she would drive them to the station to take the train back to Cornwall on time.

“This place is right lush, Mychelle.” Jenny, now in shorts and cami with teeth freshly brushed, padded barefoot into the kitchen.

“Not gonna lie, I couldn’t afford this on my salary.  There are perks to being a Holmes.  This perk was my gift from father ‘upon the occasion of my graduation from university’.” She said the last phrase in her best impression of Mycroft. 

Jenny giggled. 

“Tony in the loo?” Mychelle looked across the open floor plan towards the hall that led to the bedrooms. Jenny nodded. “I didn’t want to say earlier, but I thought your brother was supposed to be a bit goth.”

“Yeah. He sorta gave it up after our hols in May.”

“After the hotel business?”

Jenny nodded.  Mychelle sat on the counter and patted the space beside her for Jenny to join her.

“He said Mycroft showed him some old pictures of him before he married your mum. I didn’t see them. But Tony says he was wearing fishnets and leather and heels and stuff.”

Mychelle smiled broadly.  “I knew he wouldn’t have forgotten his youth.  I bet he called Aunt Lydia and had her bring them out for him to share.”

“It was nice for Tony. Mum’s always saying he’ll not get a good career or be taken seriously if he keeps wearing makeup and the like. But then he saw the pics of Mycroft and how he is now. So I think it gave him confidence.”

Mychelle reached into a cabinet behind her shoulder and pulled out two large bags of crisps. 

“My father’s a pretty decent fellow under all those layers of silk and wool.  How about we see what’s on Netflix and stuff our faces all night?”

“Yes!” Jenny slid off the counter and shouted for Tony.  “Oi! Idiot! Crisps and a film. Hurry up.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft spend their first night as a married couple at home. Mycroft is a romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending for both couples. I'd say this is it for our guys in this AT, but I said that same thing three installments ago.

_ Jenny Lestrade sent a photo _

Greg pulled away from his husband’s embrace. The newlyweds had taken the long way home, with a stop for a romantic walk along the Thames at full tide.  The driver had the aircon at a slightly cooler than usual level. The tinted windows in the back of the car were fogged from the energetic fondling in the back seat. 

The image was of Mychelle braiding Jenny’s hair.  The edge of Tony’s finger blurred the corner of the image.

_ Jenny Lestrade sent a photo _

The next one was of Tony seated between his sisters, with them both kissing his cheeks.

_ Having a fab time! You and the government should have thought of this before.  Mychelle is brilliant. Send tasteful pics from your honeymoon! xoxox Jenny _

_ And let us know when you get home safe. ;) _

“What does she mean by ‘tasteful’?” Mycroft nibbled and sucked a line from his husband’s ear to just where the shirt collar stopped him.

“I suspect she doesn’t want any nude honeymoon photos.”

“We did agree those were to be taken on the secure phones not our regular ones.”

Greg let out a low, deep chortle as Mycroft’s lips made their way back up to his ear. His husband had thought of everything, except for what to do with two teenagers in the house on their first night as married men. Luckily Lydia and Mychelle came up with the idea of the new siblings bonding at a sleepover. 

As the car pulled up the drive, Greg noticed a glow from the back of the house.  It was a wider, softer yellow than the usual outdoor security lamps. The driver opened Mycroft’s door first.  Greg heard his husband’s hurried footsteps as he ran around the boot to open his door.

“What’s going on in the garden?” Greg took a few steps closer to the house.

“Text Jennifer.”

“What?”

“Text Jennifer.  She did ask you to text when we arrived safely.”

_ Home. Safe. xo Dad _

_ Have you seen the garden yet????? :D _

_ Not yet. _

“Mycroft?” Greg pocketed his mobile.  “What’s going on in the garden?”

Mycroft bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. He pressed his lips together in an attempt to suppress the smile that had already lit up his eyes.  The front of his suit was rumpled from their groping in the car. The blue silk tie hung limply, top three buttons undone on his shirt. Pale grey silk waist coat still buttoned, but the silver pocket watch and chain had been moved to his trouser pocket since it kept getting caught on Greg’s clothes. He slipped out of his jacket and draped it over one arm, extending the other to his husband.  “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Greg looked up at his husband, bemused and suspicious, as they strolled through the garden gate to the back of the house.   Mycroft kept his eyes straight ahead, smile still quivering at the corners of his mouth. A blush crept into Mycroft’s cheeks. 

“What are you up to, Mr. Holmes?” Greg purred.

That voice went straight to both his groin and his heart - two places Mycroft formerly convinced himself were fully under his own command.  He felt his skin burn under his husband’s eyes. Heat flushed his pale skin. He was far warmer than even this muggy July evening should have made him.

“You are positively pink, Mycroft. You look suspicious and guilty.  I should take you in for ques… wow.”

Greg stopped short as they turned the corner. Mycroft allowed the smile to fully take over his face, lips parted in an unbridled display of glee.

Beyond the gazebo and the rose bushes was a grassy pitch. The gardner kept it mowed for football or cricket or croquet. Tony and Jenny had spent time out there kicking balls and getting sun.  Now, upon that flat pitch was a massive white canvas tent. Two steps led up to the wood platform. Lamps and candles gave the tent a soft yellow glow.  Greg walked up to a table set with a light supper and a bottle of wine. The candles flickered at regular intervals.  He smirked at the tiny light bulbs.  Battery operated candles for safety. Mycroft stood on the steps, hands behind his back, absolutely glowing with pride at his surprise. 

A king sized bed, all in white linens took up half the massive space.  Greg crossed the expanse of floor to reach it.  Real mattress.  Fine cotton sheets. There were even side tables with lamps and little dishes for cufflinks and watches. 

Mycroft walked up the stairs and pressed play on an MP3 player laying on the table. Soft piano music filled the air.  Greg turned to face him, tears in his eyes.

_ The first time ever I saw your face, I thought the sun rose in your eyes… _

“Will you dance with me, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft held out his right hand.

Tears coursed unchecked down Greg’s cheeks.  He placed his left hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, as he twined his right fingers into his husband’s left. Mycroft, right hand on Greg’s hip, held him close. 

“The last time we danced to this song we were wearing kilts,” he said softly near Greg’s ear.

Greg hiccuped, smiled, and pressed closer. 

“I told you that your sporran was pressing into my thigh.” He finished his words with a light kiss against Greg’s temple. Mycroft slipped his hand from his husband’s hip to his left buttock. He pressed his thigh between Greg’s legs. “Mmmm, yes.  There’s your ‘not your sporran’ again.”

Greg coughed out a tear choked laugh. “You don’t like George Michael.”

Mycroft nodded.  “But you do. And I think of this as our song.”

“What’s with all this?” Greg’s eyes swept the tent. 

“Our flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow.  I wanted to make our first night as a married couple memorable.”

“You are a romantic, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

“I did not believe my body’s baser urges, nor my heart, could be stirred by anyone, let alone both stirred at once by one man, until you asked me to dance to this song. I wanted to touch every inch of you. I wanted to hold you all night. I didn’t want this song to end. I wanted to crawl inside you and know what you felt like from the inside out.”

“That would be a crime scene your brother would  _ love _ to get access to.”

Mycroft threw his head back with a chuckle. “You make me happy, Greg. Caring may still place my heart at a disadvantage, for I know it would shatter if I lost you. But, for the first time in my life, I am content.”

“You mean that warm feeling that sits in my belly and chest? That feeling that I’ve been weirdly completed when I didn’t even know I was missing anything before? The knowledge that no matter how many days we have to be apart for work, I never wonder or worry if you are faithful, or angry at the hours I work?”

“That’s the one.”

As the song ended Mycroft spun Greg away, then close, before dipping him. Flushed, damp cheeks and bright brown eyes look up at the happiest man in all of London. “I love you, Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft righted Greg, holding him in his arms, while kissing him deeply. 

He cupped Greg’s face in his hands as he ended their kiss with lingering pecks upon his husband’s lips. “Join me in a light supper?” Mycroft placed a hand in the small of his husband’s back to steer him towards the table. “You did not eat much at the reception or at dinner.”

“I’ve been too excited to eat.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, you need your strength for tonight.” A playful smirk hovered at the edge of Mycroft’s mouth.

“How about we see how sturdy this bed is first?  We can work up an appetite.” Greg unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“But I’ve had supper prepared especially…oh.” Mycroft ended his plea to eat to watch his husband slowly work his way down the buttons on his shirt. Greg kept his dark eyes fixed upon Mycroft’s face, seductive gleam twinkling in the brown depths. Mycroft’s gaze lingered on the light spread of still brunet chest hair. He reached out one hand, palm flat against Greg’s belly, to trace the hair from navel to sternum, then across a pectoral where he flicked gently at the nipple. Greg bit back a groan.

“The silver hairs on your chest look like glitter,” he whispered, mesmerized at the image and feel of the man before him. It did not matter how often he saw Greg’s body, or how many times they had sex - every time made his heart race and vision narrow to see only the gorgeous man he loved.

Grinning, Greg unbuckled his belt and deftly undid his flies. With a little shimmy his trousers pooled around his feet. Mycroft looked down to to the tented boxers, a wet spot darkening the green silk.

“As I said, I’ve been too excited to eat.” He slipped out of his shirt, waistcoat and jacket, leaving them in a jumbled pile on the platform.  “You are wearing far too many clothes, Mr. Holmes.” Greg ran the back of his hand over the growing bulge in Mycroft’s trousers. “I’m going to sit down right here in this chair, and I want you to strip for me.”

“Strip?” 

“Mmm. Slowly.”

Greg kicked the trousers off his feet. He sat in the chair and slipped off shoes and socks. Legs spread, erection straining the single button on the green pants, he leaned back against the canvas chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.  Mycroft stood mutely. 

“Strip.”

_ Brother Can You Spare a Dime _ began to play. Greg slid the MP3 player towards himself and scrolled through. “Sorry. Not exactly sexy music. This should work.”  _  Amazing _ began to play.  Slightly funky, a bit disco, and one that Mycroft recognized from Greg’s favourite playlist.

Mycroft tugged the loose blue silk tie from around his neck and flicked it towards Greg. It landed across his bare chest. With a suggestive smirk, Greg tied it around one wrist. Mycroft raised a piqued eyebrow as he slowly unbuttoned his pale grey waistcoat.

“Jacket first.” Greg commanded. “Turn around. Take it off slowly.”

Mycroft turned inelegantly, back to his husband. He shifted his hips side to side until his body fell in with the disco rhythm. He glanced over his shoulder, gave a wink, and pulled his jacket off as slowly as he could. 

“Mmm, I adore the way you move those hips. Totally fuckable.”

_ It’s amazing how love can set you free… _

Mycroft leaned forward, arse sticking out towards Greg, and circled his hips. He turned on the spot in his second hip circle, elegantly this time, and stood with his weight on one leg. Waistcoat already unbuttoned, he dropped it to the floor. Hips still shifting subtly side to side with the beat, he undid each button on his shirt, keeping his blue grey eyes fixed on his husband. 

Greg leaned forward in the chair and grabbed at the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers. As Mycroft pulled his shirt free, Greg ran his tongue over the hint of curve in his belly. Mycroft pushed him back in the canvas chair. He knelt before him, smirking, hands covering Greg’s. 

“As the song says, you’re insatiable. Don’t make me tie you down, Detective Inspector.”

“Don’t issue hollow threats, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft deftly secured Greg’s wrist to the chair with the blue silk tie. “Symbolic, I know. Just behave.” He pressed his hot open mouth to the bulge in Greg’s pants. Sweat and the musky scent of arousal filled his nostrils. He smiled as he pulled away and Greg moaned.

“Tease.”

He straddled Greg’s legs, crotch eye level with those bright brown eyes. While he undid his trousers with one hand, he caressed his balls with the other. A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as he watched Greg fight the urge to reach out with his unbound hand. Mycroft stepped back. Thumbs in the waist of his trousers, he slid them a few inches down his hips. His erection strained at his pastel blue pants. Turning his back again while circling his hips, Mycroft bent down to remove his shoes and socks. 

“I want to nibble that arse of yours.” Greg’s voice was heady.

Mycroft rolled his socks and placed them inside his shoes, rear end shifting invitingly and just out of reach of his husband. Still bent over, he slid trousers to his feet. As he stood, he kicked them out into the garden. He shrugged as he saw them catch on the branches of a lilac bush. 

“Forget nibbling. I want to rim the alphabet while you’re on your knees.”

The song changed. Another disco dance beat.  _ Cos you’re beautiful. Like no other. _

“Mmmm,  _ Flawless _ indeed.” Greg untied himself from the canvas chair. “I am going to taste every inch of your flawless skin. By the time I’m ready to get inside you, you’ll be chanting my name like a prayer.” 

Mycroft ignored him. He danced his way to the bed. Greg strode across the platform floor in two steps, hands firmly planted on Mycroft’s rear end. Mycroft side stepped and pushed Greg face down onto the white bed. Greg rolled over, surprise on his face.

“You got what you wanted, Detective Inspector. I stripped for you. Now I get what I want.” Mycroft pushed his pants down before climbing on the bed between Greg’s thighs.

“And what would that be, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft covered Greg’s erection with his mouth.

“Myc…” Greg moaned. “Mycroft… if you don’t stop I will… oh. My. God.”  

He licked at the green silk, now sopping wet with precome and saliva. Greg’s cock twitched. 

“I’m going to… Jesus, Mycroft…”

Mycroft lapped at the soaked fabric and pressed one finger against Greg’s perineum. He felt Greg’s balls tighten. Heels digging into the mattress, Greg pressed his groin into his husband’s face as he ejaculated in his pants.

Sitting back on his knees, Mycroft smugly wiped the corners of his mouth with a pinky. “Now, Mr. Lestrade, let’s remove those ruined pants and get some supper into you. And this music will be stopped in favour of the night songs of the insects.”

“Is this what married life is going to be like with you, Mycroft? You making demands and stopping my love of George Michael?”

“If you mean shall our married life proceed as our life together has thus far? The answer is yes.”

Greg sat up. He traced Mycroft’s lips with his tongue. “As long as nothing will change.”


End file.
